WHOM    THE    GODS 
DESTROYED 


BY 


JOSEPHINE    DODGE    DASKAM 


NEW   YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
MDCCCCII 


Copyright,  1902,  by  Charks  Scnbners  Sons 


Published,    October,     1902 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


K.    W. 

WITH    THE    FRIENDSHIP    OF 

MANY    YEARS 

J.    D.    D. 


CONTENTS 

/.  Whom  the  Gods  Destroyed  1 

//.  A    Wind  Flower  29 

///.  When  Pippa  Passed  67 

IV.  The  Backsliding  of  Harriet  Blake         101 

V.  A  Bayard  of  Broadway  127 

VI.  A  Little  Brother  of  the  Books  157 

VII.  The  Maid  of  the  Mill  189 

VIII.  The  Twilight  Guests 


WHOM    THE  GODS  DESTROYED 


WHOM    THE  GODS  DESTROYED 

rp,  //£>C£ 

J.  HE   most  high   gods    have   decided   that  too 

much  power  over  the  hearts  of  men  shall  not  be 
given  to  other  men,  for  then  the  givers  are  for 
gotten  in  the  gift  and  the  smoke  dies  away  from 
the  altars.  So  they  kill  the  men  who  play  with 
souls.  According  to  an  ancient  saying,  before  they 
destroy  the  victim  they  make  him  mad.  There  are, 
however,  modifications  of  the  process.  Occasionally 
they  make  him  drunk. 

As  I  came  down  the  board-walk  that  leads  to 

the  ocean,  I  saw  by  his  staggering  and  swaying 

L    gait  that  the  man  was  not  only  very  drunk  indeed, 

X.  but  that  he  gloried  in  the  fact.  This  was  shown 

*} 
,     by   his   brandishing  arms  and   tossing  head  and 

the  defiant  air  with  which  he  regarded  the  cot 
tages,  before  one  of  which  he  paused,  leaned  for 
ward,  placing  one  hand  dramatically  at  his  ear, 
and  presently  executed  a  wild  dance  of  what  was 
apparently  derision.  A  timid  woman  would  have 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

retreated,  but  I  am  not  timid,  except  when  I  am 
alone  in  the  dark.  Also  I  have  what  my  brother- 
in-law  calls  Bohemian  tastes.  As  nearly  as  I  have 
been  able  to  understand  that  phrase,  it  signifies 
a  great  interest  in  people,  especially  when  they 
are  at  all  odd.  And  this  solitary,  scornful  dance 
of  a  ragged  man  before  the  Averys'  cottage  was 
odd  in  the  extreme. 

So  I  walked  quietly  along.  When  I  reached  the 
man  I  heard  him  muttering  rapidly  to  himself, 
while  he  rested  from  the  exertion  of  his  late  per 
formance.  What  did  dancing  drunken  men  talk 
about?  I  walked  slower.  My  brother-in-law  says 
that  a  woman  with  any  respect  for  the  proprieties, 

!,  to  say  nothing  of  the  conventions,  would  never 
have  done  this.  I  have  observed,  however,  that  his 

.  feelings  for  the  proprieties  and  the  conventions, 
both  of  them,  have  on  occasion  suffered  relapse, 
more  especially  at  those  times,  prior  to  his  mar 
riage  to  my  sister,  when  I,  although  supposed  to 
be  walking  and  riding  and  rowing  and  naphtha- 
launching  with  them,  was  frequently  and  inex 
cusably  absent.  So  I  gather  that  the  proprieties 

4 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

and  the  conventions,  like  many  other  things,  are 
relative. 

As  I  passed  the  man  he  turned  and  looked 
crossly  at  me  and  spoke  apparently  to  some  one  far 
away  behind  me,  for  he  spoke  with  much  force. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  such  damn  foolishness?"  he 
demanded.  Now  there  was  nothing  to  hear  but 
Miss  Kitty  Avery  playing  Chopin's  Fourth  Bal 
lade  in  F  minor.  She  played  it  badly,  of  course, 
but  nobody  who  knew  Kitty  Avery  would  have 
imagined  that  she  would  play  otherwise  than 
badly,  and  I  have  heard  so  much  bad  playing  that 
I  didn't  notice  it  very  much  anyway.  I  thought 
it  hardly  probable  that  the  man  should  know  how 
unfortunate  Kitty's  method  and  selection  were,  so 
I  passed  directly  by.  Soon  I  heard  his  steps,  and 
I  knew  he  was  coming  after  me.  While  he  was 
yet  some  distance  behind  me  he  spoke  again. 

"I  suppose  that  fool  of  a  woman  thinks  she  can 
play,"  he  growled  as  he  lurched  against  a  lamp 
post.  Then  I  did  the  unpardonable  deed.  I  turned 
and  answered  him. 

"How  do  you  know  it's  a  woman?"  I  asked. 
5 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

"Huh!  Take  me  for  a  fool,  don't  you?"  he  said 
scornfully,  scuffling  along  unsteadily.  "I'm  drunk 
as  an  owl,  but  I'm  no  fool!  No.  I  know  it's  a 
woman  from  the  pawin'  'round  she  does.  Bah! 
Thinks  she's  playin'.  Damn  nonsense!"  He  sat 
down  carefully  on  the  sand  by  the  side  of  the  walk 
and  wagged  his  head  knowingly.  I  looked  cau 
tiously  about.  No  one  was  in  sight.  I  bent  down 
and  untied  my  shoe. 

"Perhaps  you  could  play  it  better?"  I  sug 
gested  sweetly.  His  jaw  dropped  with  consterna 
tion. 

"Play  it  better!  Oh,  Lord!  She  says  can  I  play 
it  better!  Can-I-play-it-better?  Well,  I'll  tell  you 
one  thing.  If  I  couldn't  play  it  better,  d'ye  know 
what  I'd  do?  Do  you?" 

"No,"  said  I,  and  tied  my  shoe.  He  didn't  talk 
thickly  as  they  do  in  books.  On  the  contrary,  he 
brought  out  each  word  with  a  particularly  clear 
and  final  utterance. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'd  do.  I'd  go  off  and 
drown  my  sorrers  in  drink !  Yes,  I  would.  Although 
I'm  so  drunk  that  I  wouldn't  know  when  I  was 

6 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

getting  drunk  on  principle  and  when  I  was  just 
plain  drunk.  Le'  me  tell  you  somethin' :  Tm  drunk 
now!"  He  announced  the  fact  with  a  gravity  so 
colossal  as  to  render  laughter  impossible.  I  untied 
the  other  shoe. 

"Can  you  really  play  Chopin?"  I  said.  He 
shook  his  fist  at  the  Avery  cottage. 

"What  I  can't  play  of  Chopin  you  never  heard 
played!  So  that's  the  end  o'  that,"  he  said.  The 
folly  of  the  situation  suddenly  became  clear  to  me. 
I  hastily  tied  my  shoe  and  turned  to  go.  He  half 
rose  from  the  sand,  but  sank  helplessly  back. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  confidentially,  "I'm  tired, 
and  I  need  m'  rest.  I  got  to  have  rest.  We  all  need 
rest.  If  you  want  to  hear  me  play,  you  come  to 
the  old  hulk  of  a  barn  that's  got  the  piano  in  it. 
They  call  it  the  auditorium — au-di-to-ri-um."  He 
pronounced  the  syllables  as  if  to  a  child  of  three. 
"I'll  be  there.  You  come  before  supper.  I'll  be  rest 
ed  then.  I'd  like  to  shoot  that  woman — thinks  she 
can  play — damn  nonsense — "  I  went  on  to  the 
beach. 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

II 

MY  brother-in-law  came  down  on  the  afternoon 
boat,  and  of  course  he  occupied  our  attention.  His 
theories,  though  often  absurd,  are  certainly  well 
sustained.  For  instance,  his  ideas  as  to  the  con 
nection  between  genius  and  insanity.  He  says — 
but  I  don't  know  why  I  speak  of  it.  I  defeated 
him  utterly.  At  length  I  left  the  room.  I  hate  a 
man  who  won't  give  up  when  he's  beaten.  I  found 
the  Nice  Boy  on  the  piazza,  and  we  sat  and  talked. 
Really  a  charming  fellow.  And  not  so  very  young, 
either.  He  told  fascinating  tales  of  a  shipwreck 
he'd  experienced,  where  they  sat  on  the  bow  as  the 
boat  went  down  and  traded  sandwiches. 

"I  gave  Hunter  two  hams  for  a  chicken,  and 
it  was  a  mean  swindle!"  he  said  reminiscently. 
"Speaking  of  sandwiches,  I  gave  a  chap  ten  cents 
to  buy  one  this  afternoon.  Awfully  seedy  look 
ing.  Shabby  clothes,  stubbly  beard,  dirty  hands, 
not  half  sober,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said?" 
I  remembered  and  blushed. 

"I  don't  know,"  I  murmured. 
8 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

"He  invited  me  to  a  recital — a  piano  recital! 
He  said  he  was  going  to  play  at  five-thirty  in  the 
auditorium,  and  I  might  come  if  I  liked,  though 
it  was  a  private  affair !  How  is  that  for  nerve  ?  He 
didn't  look  up  to  a  hand  organ." 

My  curiosity  grew.  And  then,  I  had  a  great 
consciousness  of  not  liking  to  disappoint  even  a 
drunken  man.  He  evidently  thought  I  was  com 
ing.  I  sketched  lightly  to  the  Nice  Boy  the  affair 
of  the  morning.  He  was  not  shocked.  He  was 
amused.  But  my  brother-in-law  says  that  nothing 
I  could  say  could  shock  the  Nice  Boy.  In  fact,  he 
says,  that  if  I  mean  nothing  serious,  I  have  no 
business  to  let  the  Nice  Boy  think — but  that  is  a 
digression.  It  is  one  of  my  brother-in-law's  pre 
rogatives  to  be  as  impertinent  as  he  cares  to  be. 

"Shall  we  go  over?"  said  I.  "He  is  very  prob 
ably  an  accompanist,  stranded  here,  with  his  en 
gagement  ended.  Perhaps  he  even  plays  well. 
These  things  happen  in  books."  The  Nice  Boy 
shook  his  head. 

"We'll  go,  by  all  means,"  he  said,  "but  don't 
hope.  He's  not  touched  a  piano  this  long  time." 

9 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

So  we  gathered  some  shawls  and  cushions  and 
went  over.  The  building  was  all  dusty  and  smelled 
of  pine.  As  we  stumbled  in,  the  sound  of  a  piano 
met  us.  I  own  I  was  a  bit  excited.  For  one  doubt 
ful  second  I  listened,  ready  to  adore.  Then  I 
laughed  nervously.  We  were  not  people  in  a  book. 
It  was  Mendelssohn's  "Spring  Song,"  played 
rather  slowly  and  with  a  mournful  correctness.  I 
could  feel  the  player's  fingers  thudding  down  on 
the  keys — one  played  it  so  when  it  was  neces 
sary  to  use  the  notes.  The  Nice  Boy  smiled  con 
solingly. 

"Too  bad,"  he  whispered.  "Shall  we  go  out 
now  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  view  the  fragments  of  the 
idol!"  I  whispered  back.  "Let's  end  the  illusion 
by  seeing  him!" 

So  we  tip-toed  up  to  the  benches,  and  looked 
at  the  platform  where  the  Steinway  stood. 
Twirling  on  the  stool  sat  a  girl  of  seventeen 
or  so,  peering  out  into  the  gloom  at  us.  It  was 
very  startling.  Now  I  felt  that  the  strain  was  yet 
to  come.  As  I  sank  into  one  of  the  chairs  a  man 

10 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

rose  slowly  from  a  seat  under  the  platform.  It 
was  the  stranger.  He  nodded  jauntily  at  us. 

"Good  thing  you  come,"  he  announced  cheer 
fully.  "I  don't  know  how  long  I  could  stand  that 
girl.  I  guess  she's  related  to  the  other,"  and  he 
shambled  up  the  steps.  His  unsteady  walk,  his  shak 
ing  hand,  as  he  clumsily  pushed  the  chairs  out  of 
the  way,  told  their  disagreeable  story.  He  walked 
straight  up  to  the  girl,  and  looking  beyond  her, 
said  easily,  "Excuse  me,  miss,  but  I'm  goin'  to  play 
a  little  for  some  friends  o'  mine,  an'  I'll  have  to  ask 
you  to  quit  for  a  while."  The  girl  looked  unde 
cidedly  from  him  to  us,  but  we  had  nothing  to 
say. 

"Come,  come,"  he  added  impatiently,  "you  can 
bang  all  you  want  in  a  few  minutes,  with  nobody 
to  disturb  you.  Jus'  now  I'm  goin'  to  do  my  own 
turn." 

His  assurance  was  so  perfect,  his  intention  to 
command  obedience  so  evident,  that  the  child  got 
up  and  went  slowly  down  the  stairs,  more  curious 
than  angry.  The  man  swept  the  music  from  the 
rack,  and  lifted  the  top  of  the  piano  to  its  full 

11 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

height.  Then  with  an  impatient  twitch  he  spun  the 
music-stool  a  few  inches  lower,  and  pulled  it  out. 
The  Nice  Boy  leaned  over  to  me. 

"The  preparations  are  imposing,  anyhow,"  he 
whispered.  But  I  did  not  laugh.  I  felt  nervous. 
To  be  disappointed  again  would  be  too  cruel!  I 
watched  the  soiled,  untidy  figure  collapse  onto 
the  stool.  Then  I  shut  my  eyes,  to  hear  without 
prejudice  of  sight  the  opening  triple-octave  scale 
of  the  professional  pianist.  For  with  such  assur 
ance  as  he  showed  he  should  at  least  be  able  to 
play  the  scales. 

The  hall  seemed  so  large  and  dim,  I  was  so 
alone — I  was  glad  of  the  Nice  Boy.  Suppose  it 
should  all  be  a  horrible  plot,  and  the  tramp  should 
rush  down  with  a  revolver?  Suppose — and  then  I 
stopped  thinking.  For  from  far-away  somewhere 
came  the  softest,  sweetest  song.  A  woman  was  sing 
ing.  Nearer  and  nearer  she  came,  over  the  hills, 
in  the  lovely  early  morning;  louder  and  louder  she 
sang — and  it  was  the  "Spring  Song"!  Now  she 
was  with  us — young,  clear-eyed,  happy,  bursting 
into  delicious  flights  of  laughter  between  the  bars. 


WHOM   THE   GOD'S   DESTROYED 

Her  eyes,  I  know,  were  grey.  She  did  not  run  or 
leap — she  came  steadily  on,  with  a  swift,  strong, 
swaying,  lilting  motion.  She  was  all  odorous  of  the 
morning,  all  vocal  with  the  spring.  Her  voice 
laughed  even  while  she  sang,  and  the  perfect, 
smooth  succession  of  the  separate  sounds  was  un 
like  any  effect  I  have  ever  heard.  Now  she  passed 
— she  was  gone  by.  Softer,  fainter,  ah,  she  was 
gone!  No,  she  turned  her  head,  tossed  us  flowers, 
and  sang  again,  turned,  and  singing,  left  us. 
One  moment  of  soft  echo — and  then  it  was  still. 

I  breathed — for  the  first  time  since  I  heard  her, 
I  thought.  I  opened  my  eyes.  It  was  all  black  be 
fore  them,  they  had  been  closed  so  long.  I  did  not 
dare  look  at  the  Nice  Boy.  There  was  absolutely 
nothing  for  him  to  say,  but  I  was  afraid  he  would 
try  to  say  it.  He  was  staring  at  the  platform.  His 
mouth  was  open,  his  eyes  very  large.  Without 
turning  his  face  towards  me,  he  said  solemnly, 
"And  I  gave  him  ten  cents  for  a  sandwich!  Ten 
cents  for  a  sandwich !" 

Suddenly  I  heard  sobs — heavy,  awkward  sobs. 
I  looked  behind  me.  The  girl  had  dropped  for- 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

ward  on  to  the  chair  in  front  and  was  hysterically 
chattering  into  her  handkerchief. 

"/  played  that !  7  played  that !"  she  wailed.  "Oh, 
he  heard  me!  he  did,  he  did!"  I  felt  horribly 
ashamed  for  her.  How  she  must  feel!  A  child  can 

* 

suffer  so. 

But  the  man  at  the  piano  gave  a  little  chuckle 
of  satisfaction,  and  ran  his  hands  up  and  down 
the  keys  in  a  delirium  of  scales  and  arpeggios. 
Then  he  hit  heavily  a  deep,  low  note.  It  was  like 
a  great,  bass  trumpet.  A  crashing  chord:  and 
then  the  love-song  of  Germany  and  musicians 
caught  me  up  to  heaven,  or  wherever  people  go 
who  love  that  tune — perhaps  it  is  to  Germany — 
and  I  heard  a  great,  magnificent  man  singing  in  a 
great,  magnificent  baritone,  the  song  that  won 
Clara  Schumann's  heart. 

Schubert  sang  sweetly,  wonderfully.  I  cry  like 
a  baby  when  one  sings  the  Serenade  even  fairly 
well.  And  dear  Franz  Abt  has  made  most  loving 
melodies.  But  they  were  musicians  singing,  this 
was  a  man.  "Du  me'me  Liebe,  du!" — that  was  no 
piano;  it  was  a  voice.  And  yet  no  human  voice 
14 


WHOM   THE   GODS  DESTROYED 

could  be  at  once  so  limpid  and  so  rich,  so  thrilling 
and  so  clear.  And  now  it  crashed  out  in  chords — 
heavy,  broken  harmony.  All  the  rapture  of  posses 
sion,  the  very  absolute  of  human  joy  were  there — 
but  these  are  words,  and  that  was  love  and  music. 

I  don't  in  the  least  know  how  long  it  lasted. 
There  was  no  time  for  me.  The  god  at  the  piano 
repeated  it  again  and  again,  I  think,  as  it  is  never 
repeated  in  the  singing,  and  always  should  be.  I 
know  that  the  tears  rolled  over  my  cheeks  and 
dropped  into  my  lap.  I  have  a  vague  remembrance 
of  the  Nice  Boy's  enthusiastically  and  brokenly 
begging  me  to  marry  him  to-night  and  go  to  Ven 
ice  with  him  to-morrow,  and  my  ecstatically  con 
senting  to  that  or  anything  else.  I  am  sure  he  held 
my  hand  during  that  period,  for  the  rings  cut  in 
so  the  next  day.  And  I  think — indeed  I  am  quite 
certain — but  why  consider  one's  self  responsible  for 
such  things?  At  any  rate,  it  has  never  happened 
since. 

And  when  it  was  over  we  went  up  hand  in  hand, 
and  the  Nice  Boy  said,  "What — what  is  your — 
your  name?"  And  I  stared  at  him,  expecting  to 

15 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

see  his  dirty  clothes  drop  off,  and  his  trailing 
clouds  of  glory  wrap  him  'round  before  he  van 
ished  from  our  eyes.  His  heavy  eyebrows  bent  to 
gether.  His  knees  shook  the  piano-stool.  He  was 
labouring  under  an  intense  excitement.  But  I  think 
he  was  pleased  at  our  faces. 

"What — what  the  devil  does  it  matter  to  you 
what  I'm  named?'*  he  said  roughly. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  matter  at  all,  not  at  all,"  I  said 

meekly;  "only  we  wanted,  we  wanted "     And 

then,  like  that  chit  of  seventeen,  I  cried,  too.  I  am 
such  a  fool  about  music. 

"Now  you  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  I  can 
play,"  he  growled  savagely.  He  seemed  really  ter 
ribly  excited,  even  angry.  "I'll  play  one  thing 
more.  Then  you  go  home.  When  I  think  o'  what 
I  might  have  done,  great  God,  I  can't  die  till  I've 
shown  'em!  Can  I?  Can  I  die?  You  hear  me!  You 
see" — his  face  was  livid.  His  eyes  gleamed  like 
coals.  I  ought  to  have  been  afraid,  but  I  wasn't. 

"You  shall  show  them!"  I  gasped.  "You  shall! 
Will  you  play  for  the  hotel?  We  can  fill  this  place 

for  you.  We  can " 

16 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

"Oh,  you  shut  up!"  he  snarled.  "You!  I've 
played  to  thousands,  I  have.  You  don't  know  any 
thing  about  it.  It's  this  devil's  drink  that's  killin' 
me.  It  ruined  me  in  Vienna.  It  spoiled  the  whole 
thing  in  Paris.  It's  goin'  to  kill  me."  His  voice 
rose  to  a  shriek.  He  dropped  from  the  stool,  and 
from  his  pocket  fell  a  bottle.  The  Nice  Boy  gave 
a  queer  little  sob. 

"Oh,  it's  dreadful,  dreadful!"  he  whispered  to 
himself.  He  jumped  up  on  the  platform  and  seized 
the  man's  shoulder. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said.  "We'll  help  you.  Come, 
be  a  man!  You  stay  here  with  us,  and  we'll  take 
care  of  you.  Such  a  gift  as  yours  shall  not  go  for 
nothing.  Come  over  to  the  hotel,  and  I'll  get  you 
a  bed." 

The  man  staggered  up.  He  was  much  older 
than  I  had  thought.  There  were  deep,  disagree 
able  lines  in  his  face.  There  was  a  coarseness,  too 
— but,  oh,  that  "Spring  Song"!  Now,  how  can 
that  be?  My  brother-in-law  says — but  this  is  not 
his  story.  The  man  got  onto  the  seat  somehow. 

"You're  a  decent  fellow,"  he  said.  "When  I've 
17 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

done  playing,  you  go  out.  Right  straight  out. 
D'ye  hear?  I'll  come  see  you  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

Then  he  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  for  the  keys, 
and  played  the  Chopin  Berceuse.  And  it  is  an 
actual  fact  that  I  wanted  to  die  then.  Not  sud 
denly — but  jtjgt  to  be  rocked  into  rest,  rocked  into 
rest,  and  not  wake  up  any  more.  It  was  the  purest, 
sweetest,  most  inexpressibly  touching  thing  I  ever 
heard.  I  felt  so  young — so  trustful,  somehow.  I 
knew  that  no  harm  would  come.  And  then  it  sang 
itself  to  sleep,  and  we  went  away  and  left  him, 
with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands  that  still  pressed 
the  keys.  And  we  never  spoke.  I  think  the  girl 
came  out  with  us,  but  I'm  not  sure. 

At  the  door  the  Nice  Boy  gulped,  and  said  in  a 
queer,  shaky  voice,  "I'm  not  nearly  good  enough  to 
have  sat  by  you — I  know  that — you  seem  so  far 
away — but  I  want  to  tell  you."  And  I  said  that  he 
was  much  better  than  I — that  none  of  us  were  good 
— that  I  thought  it  would  be  all  right  in  the  end 
— that  after  all  it  was  being  managed  better 
than  we  could  arrange  it — that  perhaps  heaven 

18 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

was  more  like  what  we  used  to  think  than  what 
we  think  now.  There  is  no  knowing  what  we  might 
have  said  if  my  brother-in-law  had  not  come  down 
to  see  where  I  was.  And  then  I  went  to  sleep  like 
a  baby. 


Ill 


I  SHOULD  like  to  end  the  story  here.  I  should 
like  to  leave  him  boWed  over  the  keys  and  remem 
ber  only  the  most  exquisite  experience  of  my  life 
in  connection  with  him.  But  there  is  the  rest  of 
the  tale,  and  it  really  needs  telling. 

I  didn't  see  the  end.  The  Nice  Boy  and  my 
brother-in-law  saw  that,  and  I  only  know  as  much 
as  they  will  tell  me.  The  Nice  Boy  went  over  and 
got  him  the  next  morning.  He  said  his  name  was 
Decker.  He  said  that  he  had  spent  the  night  in 
the  solemnest  watching  and  praying,  and  he  had 
held  the  bottle  in  his  hands  and  never  touched  a 
drop  of  it.  They  gave  him  a  bath  and  clothes,  and 
fed  him  steadily  for  two  days.  He  grew  fat  before 
our  eyes.  He  looked  nicer,  more  respectable,  but 

19 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

more  commonplace.  He  refused  to  touch  the 
piano,  because  it  gave  him  such  a  craving  for 
drink. 

He -hated  to  talk  about  himself.  But  he  let  slip 
occasional  remarks  about  London  and  Paris  and 
Vienna  and  Leipsic  that  took  away  one's  breath. 
He  must  have  known  strange  people.  Once  he  told 
me  a  little  story  about  Clara  Schumann  that  im 
plied  more  than  acquaintance,  and  he  quoted  Liszt 
constantly.  He  was  an  American  beyond  a  doubt, 
we  thought.  He  spoke  vaguely  of  a  secret  that 
even  Liszt  had  missed.  I  guessed  it  was  connected 
with  that  wonderful  singing  quality  that  made 
the  instrument  a  human  voice  under  his  fingers. 
When  I  asked  him  about  it  he  laughed. 

"You  wait,"  he  said  confidently:  "You  just 
wait.  I'll  show  you  people  something  to  make  you 
open  your  eyes.  I  know.  You're  a  good  audience, 
you  and  your  friend.  You  make  a  good  air  to 
play  in.  You  just  wait." 

And  I  have  waited.  But  never  again  shall  I  hear 
that  lovely  girl  sing  across  the  hills.  Never  again 
will  my  heart  grow  big,  and  ache  and  melt,  and 
20 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

slip  away  to  that  song,  "Du,  Meine  Leibe,  Du." 
Oh,  it  was  not  of  this  earth,  that  music.  Perhaps 
when  I  die  I  shall  hear  the  Berceuse  echo — I  think 
it  may  be  so. 

Well,  we  got  them  all  together.  There  must  have 
been  a  thousand.  They  came  from  across  the  bay 
and  all  along  the  inlet.  The  piano  was  tuned,  and 
the  people  were  seated,  and  I  was  just  where  we 
were  that  night,  and  Mr.  Decker  was  walking  be 
hind  the  little  curtain  in  a  new  dress-suit.  He  had 
shaken  hands  with  me  just  before.  His  hands  were 
cold  as  ice  and  they  trembled  in  mine.  I  congratu 
lated  him  on  the  presence  of  Herr  H from 

Leipsic,  who  had  been  miraculously  discovered  just 

across  the  bay ;  and  Mr.  J of  New  York,  who 

could  place  him  musically  in  the  most  desirable 
fashion;  and  asked  him  not  to  forget  me,  his 
first  audience,  and  his  most  sincere  friend  and 
admirer. 

In  his  eyes  I  could  swear  I  saw  fright.  Not  ner 
vousness,  not  stage  fear,  but  sheer,  appalling  ter 
ror.  It  could  not  be,  I  thought,  and  my  brother- 
in-law  told  me  to  go  down.  Then  he  stepped  to 


WHOM  THE  GODS  DESTROYED 

the  front  and  told  them  all  how  pleased,  how 
proud  and  delighted  he  was  to  be  the  means  of 
introducing  to  them  one  whom  he  confidently 
trusted  would  leave  this  stage  to-night  one  of  the 
recognised  pianists  of  the  world.  He  described 
briefly  the  man's  extraordinary  effect  upon  two  of 
his  friends,  who  were  not,  he  was  good  enough  to 
say,  likely  to  be  mistaken  in  their  musical  esti 
mates.  He  hoped  that  they  all  appreciated  their 
good  fortune  in  being  the  first  people  in  this  part 
of  the  world  to  hear  Mr.  Decker,  and  he  took  great 
pleasure  in  introducing  him. 

At  this  point  Mr.  Decker  should  have  come  for 
ward.  As  he  did  not,  my  brother-in-law  stepped 
back  to  get  him.  He  found  the  Nice  Boy  alone  in 
the  room  behind  the  stage,  looking  distinctly  ner 
vous.  He  explained  that  Mr.  Decker  had  gone  out 
for  a  moment  to  get  the  air — he  was  naturaDy  a 
bit  excited,  and  the  room  was  close.  My  brother- 
in-law  said  nothing,  and  they  waited  a  few  min 
utes  in  strained  silence.  Finally  they  walked  about 
the  room  looking  at  each  other. 

"Do  you  think  it  was  quite  wise  to  let  him  go?" 
22 


WHOM   THE   GODS   DESTROYED 

said  my  brother-in-law,  with  compressed  lips.  The 
Nice  Boy  is  horribly  afraid  of  my  brother-in-law. 

"I'll  —  I'll  go  out  and  — and  get  him,"  he 
gasped,  and  dashed  out  into  the  dark,  cursing 
himself  for  a  fool.  This  was  unfortunate,  for  in 
five  seconds  more  Mr.  Decker  had  reeled  into  the 
room.  He  explained  in  a  very  thick  voice  that  he 
had  never  been  able  to  play  without  the  drink; 
that  a  little  brandy  set  his  fingers  free,  but  that 
he  had  taken  too  much  and  must  rest. 

When  the  Nice  Boy  got  back — he  had  brought 
two  great  pails  of  cold  water  and  a  fresh  dress- 
shirt — it  was  too  late.  The  man  lay  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor,  and  my  brother-in-law  stood,  white  and 
raging,  talking  to  the  heap.  The  man  was  drunk- 
enly,  horribly  asleep.  The  Boy  said  that  the  worst 
five  minutes  he  ever  spent  were  those  in  which  he 
poured  water  over  the  heap  on  the  floor  and  shook 
it,  my  brother-in-law  watching  with  an  absolutely 
indescribable  expression ! 

Then  he  got  out  on  the  platform  and  said  some 
thing.  Mr.  Decker  had  met  with  an  accident — 
would  some  one  get  a  doctor? — was  there  perhaps 

23 


WHOM   THE  GODS  DESTROYED 

a  doctor  in  the  audience? — they  could  realise  his 
position — and  more  of  that  sort. 

I  knew  well  enough.  When  the  doctor  went  in 
he  found  the  Boy  shaking  the  drunken  brute  on 
the  floor,  and  they  told  the  doctor  all  about  it, 
and  then  went  out  by  the  other  door.  And  they 
got  a  carriage  and  took  Decker  to  the  hotel. 

I  don't  know — it  seemed  not  wholly  his  fault. 
And  his  face  showed  that  he  had  suffered.  But 
the  men  would  hear  nothing  of  that.  My  brother- 
in-law  says  that  for  a  woman  who  is  really  as 
hard  as  nails  I  have  more  apparent  and  aesthetic 
sympathy  than  any  one  he  ever  knew.  And  that 
may  be  so. 

The  people  took  it  very  nicely.  They  cleared 
the  floor,  and  the  younger  ones  danced  and  the 
older  ones  talked,  and  the  manager  sent  over  ices 
and  coffee,  and  it  turned  out  the  affair  of  the 
season.  And  they  were  all  very  grateful  to  my 
brother-in-law  and  his  friend,  and  quite  forgot 
about  the  strange  artist. 

Whether  he  ever  fully  realised  what  the  even 
ing  had  been  we  never  knew,  because  when  they 


WHOM   THE  GODS   DESTROYED 

went  in  the  next  morning  to  see  how  he  was,  they 
found  him  dead.  The  doctor  said  that  the  ex 
citement,  the  terror,  the  sudden  cutting  off  of 
liquor,  with  the  sudden  wild  drinking,  were  too 
much  for  an  overstrained  heart,  and  that  he  had 
probably  died  soon  after  he  was  carried  to  his 
room. 

It  seemed  to  me  a  little  sad  that  while  they  were 

dancing,  the  man  whom  they  had  come  to  see . 

But  my  brother-in-law  says  that  I  turn  to  the 
morbid  view  of  things,  and  that  that  was  the  very 
blessing  of  the  whole  affair  —  that  the  crowd 
should  have  been  so  pleased,  and  that  the  horrible 
situation  should  have  ended  so  smoothly.  Be 
cause  such  a  man  is  better  dead,  he  says.  And  of 
course  he  is  right.  Life  would  be  horrible  to  him, 
one  can  see. 

But  I  have  noticed  that  the  Nice  Boy  and  the 
girl  who  heard  him  play  do  not  feel  so  sure  that 
his  death  was  best.  For  myself,  I  shall  always  feel 
that  the  world  has  lost  its  musical  master.  I  have 
heard  the  music-makers  of  two  generations,  and 
not  one  of  them  has  excelled  his  exquisite  light- 

25 


WHOM   THE   GODS  DESTROYED 

ness  and  force  of  touch,  and  that  wonderful  sing 
ing  stress — oh!  I  could  cry  to  think  of  it!  And 
when  we  go  abroad  next  I  shall  find  out  the  name 
of  the  man  who  played  in  Leipsic  and  Paris  and 
Vienna — for  he  must  have  played  there  once;  he 
said  he  had  played  to  thousands — and  see  if  any 
one  there  has  heard  of  his  secret,  his  wonderful 
singing  through  the  keys. 

For,  though  my  brother-in-law  says  that  the 
musical  temperament  in  combination  with  a  Bo 
hemian  tendency  gives  an  emotional  basis  which 
is  absolutely  unsafe  and  therefore  untrustworthy 
in  its  reports  of  actual  facts,  I  know  that  the  most 
glorious  music  of  my  life  gained  nothing  from  my 
imagination.  For  there  were  three  of  us  who  saw 
the  spring  come  over  the  hills  that  night.  Three 
of  us  heard  the  triumph-song  of  love  incarnate, 
and  thrilled  to  it.  Three  of  us  knew  for  once  a 
peace  that  passed  our  understanding,  and  had 
the  comfort  of  little  children  in  their  mother's 
arms. 

And  though  it  is  not  true,  as  my  brother-in-law 
insinuates,  that  a  man  need  only  be  able  to  play 
26 


WHOM  THE    GODS  DESTROYED 

my  soul  away  in  order  to  be  ranked  by  me  among 
the  angels,  I  shall  continue  to  insist  that  some 
where,  somehow,  the  beautiful  sounds  he  made  are 
accounted  to  him  for  just  a  little  righteousness! 


. 


A    WIND    FLOWER 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

I 

W  ILLARD'S  landlady  smile'd  sympathetically 
across  the  narrow  breakfast-table.  "I  guess  you've 
got  to  stay  in  this  mornin',  Mr.  Willard,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  good  deal  too  raw  and  cold  for  you  to  be 
out  around,  paintin',  to-day." 

Willard  nodded.  "Quite  right,  Mrs.  Storrs,"  he 
returned,  and  he  smiled  at  his  landlady's  daughter, 
who  sat  opposite.  But  she  did  not  smile  at  him. 
She  continued  her  silent  meal,  looking  for  the  most 
part  at  her  plate,  and  replying  to  direct  questions 
only  by  monosyllables. 

She  must  be  nineteen  or  twenty,  he  decided,  but 
her  slender,  curveless  figure  might  have  been  that 
of  a  girl  several  years  younger.  Her  face  was 
absolutely  without  character  to  the  casual  glance 
— pale,  slightly  freckled,  lighted  by  grey-green, 
half-closed  eyes,  and  framed  in  light  brown  hair. 
Her  lips  were  thin,  and  her  rare  smile  did  not  dis- 

31 


A    WIND     FLOWER 

close  her  teeth.  Even  her  direct  look,  when  he  com 
pelled  it,  was  quite  uninterested. 

Her  mother  chattered  with  volubility  of  a  woman 
left  much  alone,  and  glad  of  an  appreciative  lis 
tener,  but  the  girl  had  not,  of  her  own  accord, 
spoken  a  word  during  his  week's  stay.  He  won 
dered  as  he  thought  of  it  why  he  had  not  noticed 
it  before,  and  decided  that  her  silence  was  not  ob 
trusive,  but  only  the  outcome  of  her  colourless 
personality — like  the  silence  of  the  prim  New  Eng 
land  house  itself. 

He  groaned  inwardly.  "What  in  time  can  I  do? 
Nothing  to  read  within  five  miles:  my  last  cigar 
gone  yesterday :  this  beastly  weather  driving  me  to 
melancholia !  If  she  weren't  such  a  stick — heavens ! 
I  never  knew  a  girl  could  be  so  thin !" 

The  girl  in  question  rose  and  began  clearing 
the  table.  Her  mother  bustled  out  of  the  room,  and 
left  Willard  in  the  old-fashioned  arm-chair  by  the 
window,  almost  interested,  as  he  wondered  what  the 
girl  would  do  or  say  now.  After  five  minutes  of 
silence  he  realised  the  strange  impression,  or  rather 
the  lack  of  impression,  she  made  on  him.  He  was 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

hardly  conscious  of  a  woman's  presence.  The  in 
tangible  atmosphere  of  femininity  that  wraps 
around  a  tete-a-tete  with  even  the  most  unattrac 
tive  woman  was  wholly  lacking.  She  seemed  simply 
a  more  or  less  intelligent  human  being. 

Given  greatly  to  analysis,  he  grew  interested. 
Why  was  this?  She  was  not  wanting  intellectually, 
he  was  sure.  Such  remarks  as  she  had  made  in 
answer  to  his  own  were  not  noticeable  for  stu 
pidity  or  even  stolidity  of  thought.  He  broke  the 
silence. 

"What  do  you  do  with  yourself,  these  days?" 
he  suggested.  "I  don't  see  you  about  at  all.  Are 
you  reading,  or  walking  about  these  fascinating 
Maine  beaches?" 

She  did  not  even  look  up  at  him  as  she  replied. 
"I  don't  know  as  I  do  very  much  of  anything. 
I'm  not  very  fond  of  reading — at  least,  not  these 
books." 

Remembering  the  "Pilgrim's  Progress,"  "Book 
of  Martyrs,"  "Mrs.  Heman's  Poems,"  and  the 
"Adventures  of  Rev.  James  Hogan,  Missionary 
to  the  Heathen  of  Africa,"  that  adorned  the 

33 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

marble-topped  table  in  the  parlour,  he  shuddered 
sympathetically. 

"But  I  walk  a  good  deal,"  she  volunteered.  "I've 
been  all  over  that  ledge  you're  painting." 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?"  he  said.  "It  reminds  me  of 
a  poem  I  read  somewhere  about  the  beauty  of 
Appledore — that's  on  this  coast  somewhere,  too, 
isn't  it?  You'd  appreciate  the  poem,  I'm  sure — do 
you  care  for  poetry?" 

She  piled  the  dishes  on  a  tray,  and  carried  it 
through  the  door  before  he  had  time  to  take  it 
from  her. 

"No,"  she  replied  over  her  shoulder,  "no,  I  don't 
care  for  it.  It  seems  so — so  smooth  and  shiny, 
somehow." 

"Smooth?  shiny?"  he  smiled  as  she  came  back, 
"I  don't  see." 

Her  high,  rather  indifferent  voice  fell  in  a  slight 
embarrassment,  as  she  explained:  "Oh,  I  mean  the 
rhymes  and  the  verses — they're  so  even  and  like  a 
clock  ticking." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  red  book.  "Let 
me  read  you  this,"  he  said  eagerly,  "and  see  if 
34 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

you  think  it  smooth  and  shiny.  You  must  have 
heard  and  seen  what  this  man  tries  to  tell." 

She  stood  awkwardly  by  the  table,  her  scant, 
shapeless  dress  accentuating  the  straight  lines  of 
her  slim  figure,  her  hands  clasped  loosely  before 
her,  her  face  turned  toward  the  window,  which 
rattled  now  and  then  at  the  gusts  of  the  rising 
wind.  Willard  held  the  little  book  easily  between 
thumb  and  finger,  and  read  in  clear,  pleasant  tones, 
looking  at  her  occasionally  with  interest: 

"Fresh  from  his  fastnesses,  wholesome  and  spacious, 
The  north  tvind,  the  mad  huntsman,  halloos  on  his  white 

hounds 

Over  the  gray,  roaring  reaches  and  ridges, 
The  forest  of  Ocean,  the  chase  of  the  world. 
Hark  to  the  peal  of  the  pack  in  full  cry, 
As  he  thongs  them  before  him,  swarming  voluminous, 
Weltering,  wide-wallowing,  till  in  a  ruining 
Chaos  of  energy,  hurled  on  their  quarry, 
They  crash  into  foam!" 

"There!  is  that  smooth  and  shiny?"  he  de 
manded.  She  had  moved  nearer,  to  catch  more  cer 
tainly  his  least  intonation. 

35 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

Her  hands  twisted  nervously,  and  to  his  sur 
prise  she  smiled  with  unmistakable  pleasure. 

"Oh,  no !"  she  half  whispered,  eyeing  the  book  in 
his  hand  wistfully.  "Oh,  no!  That  makes  me  feel 
different.  I — I  love  the  wind." 

"What's  that?"  Mrs.  Storrs  entered  quickly. 
"Now,  Sarah,  you  just  stop  that  nonsense!  Mr. 
Willard,  has  she  been  tellin'  you  any  foolish 
ness  ?" 

"Miss  Storrs  had  only  told  me  that  she  liked 
the  wind,"  he  replied,  hoping  that  the  woman 
would  go,  and  let  him  develop  at  leisure  what 
promised  to  be  a  most  interesting  situation.  She 
had  really  very  pretty,  even  teeth,  and  when  she 
smiled  her  lips  curved  pleasantly. 

But  Mrs.  Storrs  was  not  to  be  evaded.  She  had 
evidently  a  grievance  to  set  forth,  and  looking 
reproachfully  at  her  daughter,  continued : 

"Ever  since  Sarah  was  five  or  six  years  old  she's 
had  that  crazy  likin'  for  the  wind.  'Tain't  natural, 
I  say,  and  when  the  gales  that  we  hev  up  here  strike 
us,  the  least  anybody  can  do  's  to  stay  in  the  house 
and  thank  Providence  they've  got  a.  house  to  stay 
36 


A    WIND     FLOWER 

in!  Why,  Mr.  Willard,  you'd  never  think  it  to 
look  at  her,  for  she's  a  real  quiet  girl — too  quiet, 
seems  to  me,  sometimes,  when  I'm  just  put  to  it 
for  somebody  to  be  social  with — but  in  thet  big 
gale  of  eighty-eight  she  was  out  all  night  in  it, 
and  me  and  her  father — that  was  before  Mr. 
Storrs  died — nearly  crazy  with  fearin'  she  was  lost 
for  good.  And  when  she  was  six  years  old,  she 
got  up  from  her  crib  and  went  out  on  the  beach 
in  her  little  nightgown,  and  nothin'  else,  and  it's 
a  miracle  she  didn't  die  of  pneumonia,  if  not  of 
bein'  blown  to  death." 

Mrs.  Storrs  stopped  for  breath,  and  Willard 
glanced  at  the  girl,  wondering  if  she  would  ap 
pear  disconcerted  or  angry  at  such  unlooked-for 
revelation  of  her  eccentricity;  but  her  face  had 
settled  into  its  usual  impassive  lines,  and  she  dusted 
the  chairs  serenely,  turning  now  and  then  to  look 
fixedly  through  the  window  at  the  swaying  elm 
whose  boughs  leaned  to  the  ground  under  the  still 
rising  wind. 

Her  mother  was  evidently  relieving  the  strain 
of  an  enforced  silence,  and  sitting  stiffly  in  her 

37 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

chair,  as  one  not  accustomed  to  the  luxury  of  idle 
conversation,  she  continued: 

"And  even  now,  when  she's  old  enough  to  know 
hetter,  you'd  think,  she  acts  possessed.  Any  wind 
storm  '11  set  her  off,  but  when  the  spring  gales 
come,  she'll  just  roam  'round  the  house,  back  and 
forth,  staring  out  of  doors,  and  me  as  nervous 
as  a  cat  all  the  while.  Just  because  I  won't  let 
her  go  out  she  acts  like  a  child.  Why,  last  year 
I  had  to  go  out  and  drag  her  in  by  main  force; 
I  was  nearly  blown  off  the  cliff  gettin'  her 
home.  And  she  was  singin',  calm,  as  if  she 
was  in  her  bed  like  any  decent  person!  It's  the 
most  unnatural  thing  I  ever  heard  of!  Now, 
Sarah  Storrs,"  as  the  girl  was  slipping  from  the 
room,  "you  remember  you  promised  me  not  to  go 
out  this  year  after  supper,  if  the  wind  was 
high.  You  mind,  now!  It's  comin'  up  an  awful 
blow." 

The   girl   turned   abruptly.  "I   never   promised 

you  that,  mother,"  she  said    quickly.  "I  said  I 

wouldn't  if  I  could  help  it,  and  if  I  can't  help  it, 

I  can't,  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it."  The  door 

38 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

closed  behind  her,  and  shortly  afterwards  Willard 
left  Mrs.  Storrs  in  possession  of  the  room. 

The  day  affected  him  strangely.  The  steady 
low  moan  of  the  wind  was  by  this  time  very  notice 
able.  It  was  not  cold,  only  clear  and  rather  keen, 
and  the  scurrying  grey  clouds ,  looked  chillier  than 
one  found  the  air  on  going  out.  The  boom  of  the 
surf  carried  a  sinister  threat  with  it,  and  the  birds 
drove  helplessly  with  the  wind-current,  as  if  escap 
ing  some  dreaded  thing  behind  them. 

Indoors,  the  state  of  affairs  was  not  much  better : 
Mrs.  Storrs  looked  injured;  her  sister,  a  lady  of 
uncertain  years  and  temper,  talked  of  sudden 
deaths,  and  the  probability  of  premature  burial, 
pointed  by  the  relation  of  actual  occurrences  of 
that  nature;  Sarah  was  not  to  be  seen.  At  last  he 
could  bear  idleness  no  longer,  and  opening  the 
dusty  melodeon,  tried  to  drown  the  dreary  minor 
music  of  the  wind  by  some  cheerful  selection  from 
the  hymn-book  Mrs.  Storrs  brought  him,  having 
a  vague  idea  that  secular  music  was  out  of  keep 
ing  with  the  character  of  that  instrument.  After 
a  few  moments'  aimless  fingering  the  keys  he  found 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

himself  pedalling  a  laborious  accompaniment  to 
the  "Dead  March"  from  Saul,  and  closed  the 
wheezy  little  organ  in  despair. 

The  long  day  dragged  somehow  by,  and  at 
supper  Sarah  appeared,  if  anything,  whiter  and 
more  uninteresting  than  ever,  only  to  retire  im 
mediately  when  the  meal  was  over. 

"I  might's  well  tell  you,  Mr.  Willard,  that  you 
c'n  give  up  all  hope  of  paintin*  any  more  this 
week,"  announced  Mrs.  Storrs,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her  daughter.  "This  wind's  good  for  a 
week,  I  guess.  I'm  sorry  to  have  you  go,  but  I 
shouldn't  feel  honest  not  to  tell  you."  Mentally 
vowing  to  leave  the  next  morning,  Willard  thanked 
her,  and  explained  that  the  study  was  far  enough 
advanced  to  be  completed  at  his  studio  in  the  city, 
and  that  he  had  intended  leaving  very  shortly. 

II 

A  FEW  moments  later,  as  he  stood  at  the  window 
in  the  parlour,  looking  at  the  waving  elm-boughs 
and  lazily  wondering  how  the  moon  could  be  so 
bright  when  there  were  so  many  clouds,  the  soft 
40 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

swish  of  a  woman's  skirt  sounded  close  to  his  ear. 
As  he  turned,  the  frightened  "Oh!"  and  the  little 
gasp  of  surprised  femininity  revealed  Sarah,  stand 
ing  near  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room.  Even 
at  that  distance  and  in  the  dark  he  was  aware  of 
a  difference  in  her,  a  subtle  element  of  personality 
not  present  before. 

"Did  I  frighten  you?"  he  asked,  coming  nearer. 

"No,  not  very  much.  Only  I  thought  nobody 
would  be  here.  I — I — wanted  some  place  to  breathe 
in;  it  seems  so  tight  and  close  in  the  house."  As 
she  spoke,  a  violent  blast  of  wind  drove  the  shut 
ters  against  the  side  of  the  house  and  rubbed  to 
gether  the  branches  of  the  elm  until  they  creaked 
dismally.  She  pressed  her  face  against  the  glass 
and  stared  out  into  the  dark. 

"Don't  you  love  it?"  she  questioned,  almost 
eagerly. 

Willard  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "Don't  know. 
Looks  pretty  cool.  If  it  gets  much  higher,  I 
shouldn't  care  to  walk  far." 

She  took  her  old  place  by  the  table  again,  but 
soon  left  it,  and  wandered  restlessly  about  the 

41 


A    WIND     FLOWER 

room.  As  she  passed  him  he  was  conscious  of  a 
distinct  physical  impression — a  kind  of  electric 
presence.  She  seemed  to  gather  and  hold  about  her 
all  the  faint  light  of  the  cold  room,  and  the  sweep 
of  her  skirt  against  his  foot  seemed  to  draw  him 
toward  her.  Suddenly  she  stopped  her  irregular 
march. 

"Hear  it  sing!"  she  whispered. 

The  now  distinct  voice  of  the  wind  grew  to  a 
long,  minor  wail,  that  rose  and  fell  with  rhythmic 
regularity.  As  she  paused  with  uplifted  finger  near 
him,  Willard  felt  with  amazement  a  compelling 
force,  a  personality  more  intense,  for  the  time,  than 
his  own.  Then,  as  the  blast,  with  a  shriek  that 
echoed  for  a  moment  with  startling  distinctness 
from  every  side,  dashed  the  elm  branches  against 
thi>  house  itself,  she  turned  abruptly  and  left  the 
room.  "Stay  here!"  she  said  shortly,  and,  resisting 
the  impulse  to  follow  her,  he  obeyed.  In  a  few  mo 
ments  she  returned  with  a  heavy  shawl  wrapped 
over  her  head  and  shoulders. 

"Hold  the  window  open  for  me,"  she  said,  "  I'm 
going  out."  He  attempted  remonstrance,  but  she 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

waved  him  impatiently  away.  "I  can't  get  out  of 
the  door — mother's  locked  it  and  taken  the  key, 
but  you  can  hold  up  the  window  while  I  get  out. 
Oh,  come  yourself,  if  you  like!  But  nothing  can 
happen  to  me." 

Mechanically  he  held  open  the  window  as  she 
slipped  out,  and,  dragging  his  overcoat  after  him, 
scrambled  through  himself.  She  was  waiting  for 
him  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  as  he  stumbled 
in  the  unfamiliar  shadows,  held  out  her  hand. 

"Here,  take  hold  of  my  hand,"  she  commanded. 
Her  cool,  slim  ^rasp  was  strangely  pleasant,  as 
she  hurried  along  with  a  smooth,  gliding  motion, 
wholly  unlike  her  indifferent  gait  of  the  day  be 
fore. 

Once  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  house,  the  storm 
struck  them  with  full  force,  and  Willard  realised 
that  he  was  well-nigh  strangled  in  the  clutches  of 
a  genuine  Maine  gale. 

"What  folly!"  he  gasped,  crowding  his  hat 
over  his  eyes  and  struggling  to  gain  his  wonted 
consciousness  of  superiority.  "Come  back  instantly, 

Miss  Storrs !  Your  mother " 

43 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

"Come!  come!"  she  interrupted,  pulling  him 
along. 

He  stared  at  her  in  amazement.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  open  and  almost  black  with  excitement.  Her 
face  gleamed  like  ivory  in  the  cold  light.  Her  lips 
were  parted  and  curved  in  a  happy  smile.  Her 
slender  body  swayed  easily  with  the  wind  that 
nearly  bent  Willard  double.  She  seemed  unreal 
— a  phantom  of  the  storm,  a  veritable  wind-spirit. 
Her  loosened  hair  flew  across  his  face,  and  its  touch 
completed  the  strange  thrill  that  her  hand-clasp 
brought.  He  followed  unresistingly. 

"Aren't — you — afraid — of — the — woods  ?"  he 
gasped,  the  gusts  tearing  the  words  from  his  lips, 
as  he  saw  that  she  was  making  for  the  thick  growth 
of  trees  that  bordered  the  cliff.  Her  high,  light 
laughter  almost  frightened  him,  so  weird  and  un- 
human  it  came  to  him  on  the  wind. 

"Why  should  I  be  afraid?  The  woods  are  so 
beautiful  in  a  storm !  They  bow  and  nod  and  throw 
their  branches  about — oh,  they're  best  of  all, 
then!" 

A  sweeping  blast  nearly  threw  him  down,  and 
44 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

he  instinctively  dropped  her  hand,  since  there  was 
no  possible  feeling  of  protection  for  her,  her  foot 
ing  was  so  sure,  her  balance  so  perfect.  As  he 
righted  himself  and  staggered  to  the  shelter  of 
the  tree  under  which  she  was  standing,  he  stopped, 
lost  in  wonder  and  admiration.  She  had  impa 
tiently  thrown  off  the  shawl  and  stood  in  a  gleam 
of  moonlight  under  the  tree.  Her  long,  straight 
hair  flew  out  in  two  fluttering  wisps  at  either  side ; 
her  straight,  fine  brows,  her  dark,  long  lashes,  her 
slender,  curved  mouth  were  painted  against  her 
pale  face  in  clear  relief.  Her  eyes  were  widely 
open,  the  pupils  dark  and  gleaming.  It  seemed  to 
his  excited  glance  that  rays  of  light  streamed  from 
them  to  him.  "Heavens!  she's  a  beauty!  If  only 
I  could  catch  that  pose!"  he  said  under  his 
breath. 

"Come!"  she  called  to  him  again,  "we're  wast 
ing  time!  I  want  to  get  to  the  cliff!"  He  pressed 
on  to  her,  but  she  slipped  around  the  tree  and 
eluded  him,  keeping  a  little  in  advance  as  he 
panted  on,  fighting  with  all  the  force  of  a  fairly 
powerful  man  against  the  gale  that  seemed  to 

45 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

offer  her  no  resistance.  It  occurred  to  him,  as  he 
watched  with  a  greedy  artist's  eye  the  almost  un 
natural  ease  and  lightness  of  her  walk,  that  she 
caught  intuitively  the  turns  of  the  wind,  guiding 
along  currents  and  channels  unknown  to  him,  for 
she  seemed  with  it  always,  never  against  it.  Once 
she  threw  out  both  her  arms  in  an  abandon  of 
delight,  and  actually  leaned  on  the  gust  that 
tossed  him  against  a  tree,  b&ffled  and  wearied  with 
his  efforts  to  keep  pace  with  her,  and  confusedly 
wondering  if  he  would  wake  soon  from  this  im 
probable  dream. 

Speech  was  impossible.  The  whistling  of  the 
wind  alone  was  deafening,  and  his  voice  was  blown 
in  twenty  directions  when  he  attempted  to  call  her. 
Small  twigs  lashed  his  face,  slippery  boughs  glided 
from  his  grasp,  and  the  trees  fled  by  in  a  thick- 
grown  crowd  to  his  dazed  eyes.  To  his  right,  a 
birch  suddenly  fell  with  a  snapping  crash.  He 
leaped  to  one  side,  only  to  feel  about  his  face  a 
blinding  storm  of  pattering  acorns  from  the  great 
oak  that  with  a  rending  sigh  and  swish  tottered 
through  the  air  at  his  left. 
46 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

"Good  God!"  he  cried  in  terror,  as  he  saw  her 
standing  apparently  in  its  track.  A  veer  in  the 
gale  altered  the  direction  of  the  great  trunk,  that 
sank  to  the  ground  across  her  path.  As  it  fell, 
with  an  indescribable,  swaying  bound  she  leaped 
from  the  ground,  and  before  it  quite  touched  the 
earth  she  rested  lightly  upon  it.  She  seemed  abso 
lutely  unreal — a  dryad  of  the  windy  wood.  All 
fear  for  her  left  himi.  As  she  stood  poised  on  the 
still  trembling  trunk,  a  quick  gust  blew  out  her 
skirt  to  a  bubble  on  one  side,  and  drove  it  close  to 
her  slender  body  on  the  other,  while  her  loose  hair 
streamed  like  a  banner  along  the  wind.  She  curved 
her  figure  towards  him  and  made  a  cup  of  one 
hand,  laying  it  beside  her  opened  lips.  What  she 
said  he  did  not  hear.  He  was  rapt  in  delighted 
wonder  at  the  consummate  grace  of  her  attitude, 
the  perfect  poise  of  her  body.  She  was  a  figure 
in  a  Greek  frieze  —  a  bas-relief  —  a  breathing 
statue. 

Unable  to  make  him  hear,  she  turned  slightly 
and  pointed  ahead.  He  realised  the  effect  of  the 
Wingless  Victory  in  its  unbroken  beauty.  She  was 

47 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

not  a  woman,  but  an  incarnate  art,  a  miracle  of 
changing  line  and  curve,  a  ceaseless  inspira 
tion. 

Suddenly  he  heard  the  pound  and  boom  of  the 
surf.  In  an  ecstasy  of  impatience  she  hurried  back, 
seized  his  hand,  and  fairly  dragged  him  on.  The 
crash  of  the  waves  and  the  wind  together  took 
from  him  all  power  of  connected  thought.  He 
clung  to  her  hand  like  a  child,  and  when  she  threw 
herself  down  on  her  face  to  breathe,  he  grasped 
her  dress  and  panted  in  her  ear:  "We — can't — get 
— much  —  farther  —  unless  —  you  —  can  —  walk 
• — the  —  Atlantic!"  She  smiled  happily  back  at 
him,  and  the  thickness  of  her  hair,  blown  by  the 
wind  from  the  ocean  about  his  face,  brought  him 
a  strange,  unspeakable  content. 

"Shall  we  ever  go  back?"  he  whispered,  half  to 
himself.  "Or  will  you  float  down  the  cliff  and  wake 
me  by  your  going?" 

Her  wide,  dark  eyes  answered  him  silently.  "It 

is  like  a  dream,  though,"  her  high,   sweet  voice 

added.  And  then  he  realised  that  she  had  hardly 

spoken  since  they  left  the  house.  The  house?  As 

48 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

in  a  dream  he  tried  vaguely  to  connect  this  Undine 
of  the  wood  with  the  girl  whose  body  she  had 
stolen  for  this  night's  pranks.  As  in  a  dream  he 
rose  and  followed  her  back,  through  the  howling, 
sweeping  wind.  Her  cold,  slim  hand  held  his;  her 
light,  shrill  voice  sang  little  snatches  of  songs — 
hymns,  he  remembered  afterward.  As  the  moon 
light  fell  on  her,  he  wondered  dreamily  why  he 
had  thought  her  too  thin.  And  all  the  while  he 
fought,  half -unconsciously,  the  resistless  gale,  that 
spared  him  only  when  he  yielded  utterly. 

The  house  gleamed  white  and  square  before 
them.  Silently  he  raised  the  window  for  her.  He 
had  no  thought  of  lifting  her  in.  That  she  should 
slip  lightly  through  was  of  course.  The  house  was 
still  lighted,  and  he  heard  the  creaking  of  her 
mother's  rocking-chair  in  the  bedroom  over  his 
head.  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Does  her  mother 
rock  all  night?"  he  thought  dully,  for  it  was 
nearly  twelve.  She  read  his  question  from  the  per 
plexed  glance  he  threw  at  her. 

"She's  sitting  up  to  watch  the  door  so  that  I 
sha'n't  get  out,"  she  whispered  quietly,  without 

49 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

a  smile.  "Good-bye."  And  he  stood  alone  in  the 
room. 

Until  late  the  next  morning  he  wandered  in 
strange,  wearied,  yet  fascinating  dreams  with  her. 
Vague  sounds,  as  of  high-pitched  reproaches  and 
quiet  sobbing,  mingled  with  his  morning  dreams, 
and  when,  with  aching  head  and  thoroughly  be 
wildered  brain,  he  went  to  his  late  breakfast,  Mrs. 
Storrs  served  him;  only  as  he  left  for  the 
train,  possessed  by  a  longing  for  the  great,  busy 
city  of  his  daily  work,  did  he  see  her  daughter, 
walking  listlessly  about  the  house.  Her  freckled 
face  was  paler  than  ever,  her  half -closed  eyes  red 
dened,  and  her  slight,  awkward  bow  in  recognition 
of  his  puzzled  salute  might  have  been  directed  to 
some  one  behind  him.  Only  his  aching  head  and 
wearied  feet  assured  him  that  the  strangest  night 
of  his  life  had  been  no  dream. 

Ill 

THAT  his  studio  should  seem  bare  and  uninter 
esting  as  he  threw  open  the  door,  and  tried  to 
kindle  a  fire  in  the  dusty  stove,  did  not  surprise 
50 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

him.  That  the  sketches  and  studies  in  colour  should 
look  tame  and  flat  to  the  eye  that  had  been  fed 
for  two  weeks  with  Maine  surf,  angry  clouds,  and 
swaying  branches,  was  perhaps  only  natural.  But 
as  the  days  went  on  and  he  failed  to  get  in  train 
for  work  a  puzzled  wonder  slowly  grew  in  him. 
Why  was  it  that  the  picture  dragged  so?  He  re 
membered  perfectly  the  look  of  the  beach,  the  feel 
of  the  cold,  hungry  water,  the  heavy,  grey  clouds, 
the  primitive,  forbidding  austerity  that  a  while 
ago  he  had  been  so  confidently  eager  to  put  on  the 
canvas.  Why  was  it  that  he  sat  for  hours  together 
helplessly  staring  at  it?  His  friends  supposed  him 
wrapped  in  his  subject,  working  under  a  high 
pressure,  and  considerately  left  him  alone;  they 
would  have  marvelled  greatly  had  they  seen  him 
glowering  moodily  at  the  merest  study  of  the  sub 
ject  he  had  described  so  vividly  to  them,  smoking 
countless  packages  of  cigarettes,  hardly  lifting  his 
hand  from  his  chair-arm. 

Once  he  threw  down  a  handful  of  brushes  and 
started  out  for  a  tramp.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
the  city  sights  and  smells,  the  endless  hum  and 

51 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

roar,  the  rapid  pace  of  the  crowded  streets  would 
tone  him  up  and  set  his  thoughts  in  a  new  line; 
he  was  tired  of  the  whistling  gales  and  tossing 
trunks  and  booming  surf  that  haunted  his  nights 
and  confused  his  days.  A  block  away  from  the 
studio  a  flower-woman  met  him  with  a  tray  of 
daffodils  and  late  crocuses.  A  sudden  puff  of  wind 
blew  out  her  scant,  thin  skirt;  a  tree  in  the  centre 
of  the  park  they  were  crossing  bent  to  it,  the 
branches  creaked  faintly.  The  fresh,  earthy  odour 
of  the  flowers  moved  him  strangely.  He  bought  a 
bunch,  turned,  and  went  back  to  the  studio, 
to  sit  for  an  hour  gazing  sightlessly  ahead  of 
him. 

Suddenly  he  started  up  and  approached  the 
sketch. 

"It  wants  wind,"  he  muttered,  half  uncon 
sciously,  and  fell  to  work.  An  hour  passed,  two, 
three — he  still  painted  rapidly.  Just  as  the  light 
was  fading  a  thunderous  knock  at  the  door  ushered 
in  the  two  men  he  knew  best.  He  nodded  vaguely, 
and  they  crossed  the  room  in  silence  and  looked 
at  the  picture.  For  a  few  moments  no  one  spoke. 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

Presently  Willard  took  a  brush  from  his  mouth 
and  faced  them. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

The  older  man  shook  his  head.  "Queer  sky!" 
he  answered  briefly. 

The  younger  looked  questioningly  at  Willard. 
"You'll  have  to  get  a  gait  on  }^ou  if  you  hope  to 
beat  Morris  with  that,"  he  said.  "What's  up, 
Willard?  Don't  you  want  that  prize?" 

"Of  course  I  do."  His  voice  sounded  dull,  even 
to  himself.  "You  aren't  any  too  sympathetic,  you 
fellows "  he  tried  to  feel  injured. 

The  older  man  came  nearer.  "What's  that  white 
thing  there  ?  Good  Lord,  Will,  you're  not  going  to 
try  a  figure " 

Willard  brushed  rapidly  over  the  shadowy  out 
line.  "No — that  was  just  a  sketch.  The  whole 
thing's  just  a  sort  of " 

"The  whole  thing's  just  a  bluff!"  interrupted 
the  younger  man,  decidedly.  "It's  not  what  you 
told  us  about  at  all — and  it's  not  good,  anyway. 
It  looks  as  if  a  tornado  had  struck  it!  You  said  it 
was  to  be  late  afternoon — it's  nearer  midnight,  as 

53 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

far  as  I  can  see!  What's  that  tree  lying  around 
for?" 

His  tone  was  abusive,  but  a  genuine  concern  and 
surprise  was  underneath  it.  He  looked  furtively  at 
his  older  friend  behind  Willard's  back.  The  other 
shook  his  head  expressively. 

Willard  bit  his  lip.  "I  only  wanted  to  try — it 
won't  necessarily  stay  that  way,"  he  explained. 
He  wished  he  cared  more  for  what  they  said.  He 
wished  they  did  not  bore  him  so  unspeakably. 
More  than  all,  he  wished  they  would  go. 

The  younger  one  whistled  softly.  "Pretty  late 
in  the  day  to  be  making  up  your  mind,  I  should 
say,"  he  remarked.  "When's  it  going  to  dry 
in?  Morris  has  been  working  like  a  horse  on  his 
for  six  weeks.  He's  coming  on,  too — splendid 
colour !" 

Willard  lit  a  cigarette.  "Damn  Morris !"  he  said 
casually.  The  older  man  drew  on  his  glove  and 
turned  to  go. 

"Oh,  certainly !"  he  replied  cheerfully.  "By  all 
means!  No,  we  can't  stay — we  only  dropped  in. 
We  just  thought  we'd  see  how  you  were  getting 
54 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

along.  If  I  were  you,  Will,  I'd  make  up  my  mind 
about  that  intoxicated  tree  and  set  it  up  straight 
— good-bye !" 

They  went  out  cheerfully  enough,  but  he  knew 
they  were  disappointed  and  hurt — they  had  ex 
pected  so  much  from  that  picture.  And  he  wished 
he  cared  more.  He  looked  at  it  critically.  Of  course 
it  was  bad,  but  how  could  they  tell  what  he  had 
been  doing?  It  was  the  plan  of  months  changed 
utterly  in  three  hours.  The  result  was  ridiculous, 
but  he  needed  it  no  longer — he  knew  what  he 
wanted  now,  what  he  had  been  fighting  against  all 
these  days.  He  would  paint  it  if  he  could — and 
till  he  could.  The  insistent  artist-passion  to  ex 
press  even  bunglingly  something  of  the  unendur 
able  beauty  of  that  strange  night  was  on  him, 
and  before  the  echo  of  his  guests'  departure  had 
died  away  he  was  working  as  he  had  never  worked 
before,  the  old  picture  lying  unnoticed  in  the  cor 
ner  where  he  had  thrown  it. 

He  needed  no  models,  he  did  not  use  his  studies. 
Was  it  not  printed  on  his  brain,  was  it  not  etched 
into  his  heart,  that  weird  vision  of  the  storm,  with 

55 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

the  floating  fairy  creature  that  hardly  touched  the 
earth?  Was  there  a  lovely  curve  in  all  her  melting 
postures,  which  slipped  like  water  circles  into  new 
shapes,  that  he  did  not  know?  That  haunting, 
elf-like  look,  that  ineffably  exquisite  abandon,  had 
he  not  studied  it  greedily  then  in  the  wood,  and 
later,  in  his  restless  dreams?  The  trees  were  sen 
tient,  the  bushes  put  out  clasping  fingers  to  detain 
him,  the  wind  shrieked  out  its  angry  soul  at  him ; 
and  she,  the  white  wonder  with  her  floating  wisps 
of  stinging  hair,  had  joined  with  them  to  mock  at 
him,  the  startled  witness  of  that  mad  revel  of  all 
the  elements.  He  knew  all  this — he  was  drunk  with 
it:  could  he  paint  it?  Or  would  people  see  only  a 
strange-eyed  girl  dancing  in  a  wood? 

He  did  not  know  how  many  days  he  had  been 
at  work  on  it;  he  ate  what  the  cleaning-woman 
brought  him;  his  face  was  bristled  with  a  stubby 
growth ;  the  cigarette  boxes  strewed  the  floor.  Men 
appeared  at  the  door,  and  he  urged  them  peevishly 
to  go  away ;  people  brought  messages,  and  he  said 
he  was  not  in  town,  and  returned  the  notes  unread. 
In  the  morning  he  smiled  and  breathed  hard  and 
56 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

patted  the  easel;  at  night  he  bit  his  nails  and 
cursed  himself  for  a  colour-blind  fool. 

There  was  a  white  birch,  strained  and  bent  in 
the  wind,  that  troubled  him  still,  and  as  he  was 
giving  it  the  last  touches,  in  the  cold,  strong  after 
noon  light,  the  door  burst  open. 

"Look  here,  the  thing  closes  at  six!  Are  you 
crazy?"  they  called  to  him,  exasperatedly.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  send  it?" 

"That's  all  right,  that's  all  right,"  he  muttered 
vaguely,  "shut  up,  can't  you?" 

They  stood  over  behind  him,  and  there  was  a 
stillness  in  the  room.  He  laid  down  his  palette 
carefully  and  turned  to  them,  a  worried  look  on 
his  drawn,  bristled  face. 

"That's  meant  to  be  the  ocean  beyond  the  cliff 
there,"  he  said,  an  almost  childlike  fear  in  his  eyes, 
"did — did  you  know  it?" 

The  older  man  drew  in  a  long  breath. 

"Lord,  yes!  I  hear  it!"  he  returned,  "do  you 
think  we're  deaf?" 

The  younger  one  squinted  at  various  distances, 
muttering  to  himself. 

57 


A    WIND     FLOWER 

"Dryad?  Undine?  No,  she  frightens  you,  but 
she's  sweet!  George!  He's  painted  the  wind!  He's 
actually  drawn  a  wind!  My,  but  it's  stunning! 

My!" 

Willard  sank  into  a  chair.  He  was  flushed  and 
his  legs  shook.  He  patted  the  terrier  unsteadily 
and  talked  to  her.  "Well,  then!  Well,  then!  So 
she  was,  iss,  so  she  was!" 

The  older  man  snapped  his  watch.  "Five- 
thirty,"  he  said.  "Put  something  'round  it,  and 
whistle  a  cab — we'll  have  to  hurry!" 

Willard  fingered  some  dead  crocuses  on  the 
stand  beside  him.  "Look  out,  you  fool,  it's  wet !" 
he  growled.  The  older  man  patted  his  shoulder. 

"All  right,  boy,  all  right!"  he  said  soothingly. 
"It's  all  done,  now — never  mind!" 

They  shouldered  it  out  of  the  door  while  he 
pulled  the  terrier's  ears. 

"Where  you  going?"  they  called. 

"  Turkish  bath.  Restaurant.  Vaudeville,"  he  an 
swered,  and  they  nodded. 

"All  alone?" 

"Yes,  thanks.  Drop  in  to-morrow!" 
58 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

" And  drive  like  thunder!"  he  heard  them 

through  the  open  window. 

A  week  later  he  was  walking  up  Broadway  be 
tween  them,  sniffing  the  fresh,  sweet  air  comfort 
ably,  the  terrier  at  his  heels.  At  intervals  they 
read  him  bits  from  the  enthusiastic  comments  of 
the  critics. 

"Mr.  Willard,  whose  'Windflower'  distanced  all 
competitors  and  won  the  Minot  prize  by  a  unani 
mous  verdict  of  the  judges,  has  displayed,  aside 
from  his  thorough  master  of  technic,  a  breadth 
of  atmosphere,  an  imaginative  range  rarely  if  ever 
equalled  by  an  American.  Nothing  but  the  work 
itself,  so  manifestly  idealistic  in  subject  and  treat 
ment,  could  convince  us  that  it  is  not  a  study  from 
life,  so  keen,  so  haunting  is  the  impression  pro 
duced  by  the  remarkable  figure  of  the  Spirit  of 
the  Gale,  who  seems  to  sink  before  our  eyes  on  the 
falling  trunk,  literally  riding  the  storm.  In  direct 
contrast  to  this  abandon  of  the  figure  is  the  ad 
mirable  reticence  of  the  background  which  is  keyed 
so  low " 

Willard  stopped  abruptly  before  the  window  of 
59 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

a  large  art  establishment  where  a  photograph  of 
the  picture  was  already  displayed.  "I  want  one 
of  those,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  going  out  into  the 
country  for  a  bit  before  I  sail,  I  think." 

"Oh,  back  there?"  they  asked,  comprehensively. 

"Yes,  back  there!" 

IV 

As  the  train  rushed  along  he  explained  to  him 
self  why  he  was  going — why  he  had  not  merely 
sent  the  photograph.  He  wanted  to  see  her,  to 
brush  away  the  cloud  of  illusion  that  the  weeks 
had  spun  around  her.  He  wanted  to  realise  defi 
nitely  the  difference  between  the  pale,  silent,  un 
formed  New  England  girl  and  the  fascinating 
personality  of  his  picture.  Ever  since  he  left  her 
they  had  grown  confused,  these  two  that  his  com 
mon  sense  told  him  were  so  different,  and  he  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  unavowed  hope  that  for 
him,  at  least,  they  might  be  some  day  one.  The 
same  passionate  power  that  had  thrown  mystery 
and  beauty  into  colour  on  the  canvas  wove  sweet, 
60 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

wild  dreams  around  what  he  contemptuously  told 
himself  was  little  better  than  a  lay  figure,  but  he 
yielded  to  it  now  as  he  had  then. 

When  he  told  himself  that  he  was  going  pur 
posely  to  hear  her  talk,  to  see  her  flat,  unlovely 
figure,  to  appreciate  her  utter  lack  of  charm,  of 
all  vitality,  he  realised  that  it  was  a  cruel  errand. 
But  when  he  felt  the  sharp  thrill  that  he  suffered 
even  in  anticipation  as  his  quick  imagination  pict 
ured  the  dream-cloud  dropping  off  from  her,  actu 
ally  before  his  eyes,  he  believed  the  journey  more 
than  ever  a  necessary  one. 

FAs  he  walked  up  the  little  country  street  his 
heart  beat  fast;  the  greening  lawns,  the  fresh, 
faint  odours,  the  ageless,  unnamable  appeal  of  the 
spring  stirred  his  blood  and  thrilled  him  inexpres 
sibly.  He  was  yet  in  the  first  flush  of  his  success; 
his  whole  nature  was  relaxed  and  sensitive  to  every 
joy;  he  let  himself  drift  on  the  sweet  confused 
expectancy,  the  delicious  folly,  the  hope  that  he 
was  to  find  his  dream,  his  inspiration,  his  spirit  of 
the  wind  and  wood. 

A  child  passed  him  with  a  great  bunch  of  daf- 
61 


A    WIND    FLOWER 

fodils  and  stopped  to  watch  him  long  after  he  had 
passed,  wondering  at  the  silver  in  her  hand. 

At  the  familiar  gate  a  tall,  thin  woman's  figure 
stopped  his  heart  a  second,  and  as  a  fitful  gust 
blew  out  her  apron  and  tossed  her  shawl  over  her 
head,  he  felt  his  breath  come  more  quickly. 

"Good  heavens !"  he  muttered,  "what  folly !  Am 

I  never  to  see  a  woman's  skirt  blown  without " 

She  put  the  shawl  back  as  he  neared  her — it 
was  Mrs.  Storrs's  sister.  She  met  his  outstretched 
hand  with  a  blank  stare.  Suddenly  her  face 
twitched  convulsively. 

"O  Mr.  Willard!  O  Mr.  Willard!"  she  cried, 
and  burst  into  tears. 

The  wind  blew  sharper,  the  elm  tree  near  the 
window  creaked,  a  dull  pain  grew  in  him. 

"What  is  it?"  What's  the  matter?"  he  said 
brusquely. 

"I  suppose  you  ain't  heard — you  wouldn't  be 
apt  to!"  she  sobbed,  and  pushing  back  the  locks 
the  wind  drove  into  her  reddened  eyes,  she  broke 
into  incoherent  sentences:  he  heard  her  as  one  in 
a  dream. 

62 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

"And  she  would  go — 'twas  the  twenty-fifth — 
there  was  dozens  o'  trees  blown  down — 'twas  just 
before  dark — her  mother,  she  ran  out  after  her 
as  soon's  she  knew — she  called,  but  she  didn't  hear 
— she  saw  her  on  the  edge  o'  the  rocks,  an'  she 
almost  got  up  to  her  an'  screamed,  an'  it  scared 
her,  we  think — she  turned  'round  quick,  an'  she 
went  right  off  the  cliff  an'  her  mother  saw  her  go 
— 'twas  awful!" 

Willard's  eyes  went  beyond  her  to  the  woods; 
the  woman's  voice,  with  its  high,  flat  intonation, 
brought  the  past  so  vividly  before  him  that  he 
was  unconscious  of  the  actual  scene — he  lived 
through  the  quick,  terrible  drama  with  the  inten 
sity  of  a  witness  of  it. 

"No,  they  haven't  found  her  yet — the  surf's  too 
high.  We  always  had  a  feeling  she  wouldn't  live 
— she  wasn't  like  other  girls " 

Half  unconsciously  he  unwrapped  the  photo 
graph. 

"I — I  brought  this,"  he  said  dully.  The  woman 
blanched  and  clutched  the  gate-post. 

"Oh,  take  it  away !  Take  it  away !"  she  gasped, 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

a  real  terror  in  her  eyes.  "O  Mr.  Willard,  how 
could  you — it's  awful!  I — I  wouldn't  have  her 
mother  see  it  for  all  the  world!"  Her  sobs  grew 
uncontrollable. 

He  bent  it  slowly  across  and  thrust  it  in  his 
pocket. 

"No,  no,"  he  said  soothingly,  "of  course  not, 
of  course  not.  I  only  wanted  to  tell — you  all — 
that  it  took  the  prize  I  told  you  about  and — and 
was  a  good  thing  for  me.  I  hoped — I  hoped " 

He  saw  that  she  was  trembling  in  the  sudden 
cold  wind,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"This  has  been  a  great  shock  to  me,"  he  said 
quietly,  his  eyes  still  on  the  woods.  "Please  tell  Mrs. 
Storrs  how  I  sympathise — how  startled  I  was.  I 
am  going  abroad  in  a  few  days.  I  will  send  you  my 
address,  and  if  there  is  ever  anything  I  can  do,  you 
will  gratify  me  more  than  you  can  know  by  letting 
me  help  you  in  any  way.  Give  her  these,"  and  he 
thrust  out  the  great  bunch  of  daffodils  to  her. 
She  took  them,  still  crying  softly,  and  turned 
towards  the  house. 

Later  he  found  himself  in  the  woods  near  the 
64 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

great  oak  that  lay  just  as  it  had  fallen  that  night. 
Beneath  all  the  confused  tumult  of  his  thoughts 
one  clear  truth  rang  like  a  bell,  one  bitter-sweet 
certainty  that  caught  him  smiling  strangely  as  he 
realised  it!  "She's  won!  She's  won!" 

There,  while  the  branches  swayed  above  him, 
and  the  surf,  sinister  and  monotonous,  pounded 
below,  the  vision  that  had  made  them  both  famous 
melted  into  the  elusive  reality,  and  he  lived  again 
with  absolute  abandonment  that  sweet  mad  night, 
he  felt  again  her  hair  blown  about  his  face  as  he 
lay  on  the  windy  cliff  with  the  lady  of  his  dreams. 

For  him  her  fate  was  not  dreadful — she  could 
not  have  died  like  other  women.  There  was  an  in 
toxication  in  her  sudden  taking  away:  she  was 
rapt  out  of  life  as  she  would  have  wished,  he  knew. 

Slowly  there  grew  upon  him  a  frightened  won 
der  if  she  had  lived  for  this.  Her  actual  life  had 
been  so  empty,  so  unreal,  so  concentrated  in  those 
piercing  stolen  moments;  she  had  ended  it,  once 
the  heart  of  it  had  been  caught  and  fixed  to  give 
to  others  faint  thrills  of  all  she  had  felt  so  utterly. 

"She  died  for  it!"  he  felt,  with  a  kind  of  awe 
65 


A     WIND     FLOWER 

that  was  far  from  all  personal  vanity — the  blame 
less  egoism  of  the  artist. 

He  left  the  little  town  hardly  consciously.  On 
his  outward  voyage,  when  the  gale  beat  the 
vessel  and  the  wind  howled  to  the  thundering 
waves,  he  came  to  know  that  though  a  love  more 
real,  a  passion  less  elusive,  might  one  day  hold 
him,  there  would  rest  always  in  his  heart  and  brain 
one  ceaseless  inspiration,  one  strange,  sweet  mem 
ory  that  nothing  could  efface. 


66 


WHEN    PIPPA    PASSED 


WHEN    PIPPA    PASSED 

MR.  DEL  AFIELD,  stepping  comfortably  forth 
from  his  club,  had  dined  especially  well,  and  was 
in  a  correspondingly  good  humour.  As  the  brisk 
March  wind  swept  across  the  corner  just  in  front 
of  him,  he  meanwhile  settling  his  glossy  hat  more 
firmly  on  a  fine,  close-clipped  grey  head,  a  sud 
den  kindly  impulse,  not  entirely  usual  with  him, 
sent  him  bending  to  his  knee  to  pick  up  the  fugi 
tive  slip  of  white,  scribbled  foolscap  that  fluttered 
by  him,  hotly  pursued  by  a  slender  young  man. 

"  Thanks.  Oh,  thanks !"  murmured  the  pursuer, 
as  Delafield,  with  a  courteous  inclination  of  the 
head,  tendered  the  captured  slip. 

"Not  at  all."  A  consciousness  of  the  boy's  quick 
panting,  his  anxious  tug  at  the  paper,  actually 
an  almost  audible  beating  of  the  heart,  drew  the 
older  man  to  look  carefully  at  him.  A  white,  oval 
face,  drooping  mouth,  black,  deep-set  eyes  that 
fairly  burned  into  his,  compelled  attention. 

69 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"Important  paper,  I  suppose?"  he  inquired 
lightly.  "Wouldn't  want  to  lose  it." 

"No— oh,  no!" 

"Get  a  wigging  at  the  office?" 

"It — it's  not — they  are  my  own — it  is  a  poem!" 
stammered  the  young  man. 

Delafield  chuckled  involuntarily,  and  then,  as  a 
quick  red  poured  over  the  other's  cheeks,  he  made 
a  hasty  gesture  of  apology. 

"No  offence — none  at  all,  I  assure  you,  Mr. — 
Mr.  Poet!  I  was  only  taken  by  surprise.  One 
doesn't  often  assist  a  poet  in  catching  his  works!" 
He  laughed  again,  a  contented  after-dinner 
laugh. 

Then,  as  the  young  man  fell  behind  him  quietly, 
the  incident  being  over,  an  idle  desire  for  company 
prompted  him  to  delay  his  own  pace. 

"Do  you  write  much?  Get  it  printed?  Good 
publisher?"  he  inquired  genially.  Few  persons 
could  resist  Lester  Delafield's  smile :  his  very  butler 
warmed  to  it,  and  the  woman  who  retained  her 
reserve  under  it  he  had  never  met. 

Again  the  young  man  blushed.  "Published?  No, 
70 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

sir;  I  never  dared  to  see — I  don't  know  if  it's 
worth  being  printed,"  he  said. 

"But  you  think  it's  pretty  good,  eh?  I'll  bet 
you  do.  I  used  to.  Let  me  see  it.  I'll  tell  you  if 
it's  worth  anything." 

They  had  turned  into  a  quieter  cross-street;  the 
wind  had  passed  them  by.  Standing  under  a  street 
light,  benevolently  amused  at  his  impulse,  Dela- 
field  tucked  his  stick  under  his  arm,  uncreased  the 
paper,  and  noted  the  title  of  the  poem  aloud:  To 
the  Moon  in  a  Stormy  Night.  His  eyebrows  lifted ; 
he  glanced  quizzically  at  the  young  man,  but  met 
such  an  earnest,  searching  look,  so  restrained,  yet 
so  quivering,  so  terrified,  yet  so  brave,  that  his 
heart  softened  and  he  read  on  in  silence. 

A  minute  passed,  two,  three,  and  four.  The  man 
read  silently,  the  boy  waited  breathless  in  suspense. 
The  noisy,  crowding  city  seemed  to  sweep  by  them, 
leaving  them  stranded  on  this  little  point  of  time. 

Mr.  Delafield  raised  his  eyes  and  regarded  the 
boy  thoughtfully. 

"You  say  you  wrote  this?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  sir." 

71 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"When  did  you  write  it?" 

"Last  night." 

"Have  you  any  more  like  it?" 

"I  don't  know  if  it's  like  it.  I've  got  quite  a 

good  deal  more.  What  do  you "  He  could  get 

no  further.  Drops  of  perspiration  started  from 
his  forehead.  His  mouth  was  drawn  flat  with 
anxiety. 

"This  poetry,"  said  Delafield,  with  a  carefully 
impersonal  calm,  "is  very  good.  It  is  remarkably 
good.  It  is  stunning,  in  fact.  'And  moored  at  last 
in  some  pale  bay  of  dawn" — why  did  you  stop 
there?  Isn't  that  rather  abrupt?" 

"That  was  when  it  ended.  Do  you  really 
think " 

"I  don't  think  anything  about  it.  I  know.  You 
have  a  future  before  you,  my  young  friend.  I 
should  like  to  see — Good  Lord,  what  is  it?" 

For  the  boy  had  twined  his  arms  around  the 
lamp-post  and  was  slowly  sinking  to  the  pave 
ment.  His  face  was  ghastly  white.  Delafield 
grasped  his  arm,  and  as  their  eyes  met,  the  older 
man  drew  a  quick  breath  and  scowled. 

72 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"It's  not  because — you're  not — when  did  you 
have  your  lunch?"  he  demanded  shortly. 

The  boy  smiled  weakly. 

"And  your  breakfast?" 

"Oh,  I  had  that — quite  a  little — really  I  did!" 
fie  half  whispered. 

Delafield  got  him  on  his  feet  and  around  the 
corner  to  a  restaurant.  As  they  entered,  the  smell 
of  the  food  weakened  him  again,  and  he  staggered 
against  his  friend,  begging  his  pardon  helplessly. 

"Soup — and  hurry  it  up,  it's  immaterial  what 
kind,"  the  host  commanded. 

As  the  boy  gulped  it  down  he  made  out  a  fur 
ther  order,  and  while  the  hot  meat,  vegetables,  and 
bread  vanished  and  the  strong,  brown  coffee  low 
ered  in  the  cup,  he  lighted  a  long  cigar  and  talked 
with  a  quiet  insistence.  Later,  when  his  guest 
blinked  drowsily  behind  a  cloud  of  cigarette 
smoke,  he  asked  questions,  marvelling  at  the  sim 
ple  replies. 

The  boy's  name  was  Henry  West ;  it  was  twenty- 
two  years  since  he  had  made  his  appearance  in  a 
family  already  large  enough  to  regard  his  advent 

73 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

with  a  stoical  endurance.  His  people  all  worked  in 
the  mills  in  Lowell;  he,  too,  till  the  noise  and  jar 
gave  him  racking  headaches.  He  made  his  first 
verses  in  the  mill.  He  had  come  to  New  York  to 
learn  to  be  a  clerk  in  a  corner  drug-store  kept  by 
a  distant  cousin,  but  he  couldn't  seem  to  learn  the 
business.  The  names  of  the  things  were  hard  to 
remember.  His  cousin  said  he  was  absent-minded. 
And  he  had  to  read  everything  that  was  in  sight : 
if  a  thing  was  printed  he  seemed  to  have  to  read 
it.  He  read  books  from  the  library  and  the  night- 
school  when  his  cousin  thought  he  was  polishing 
the  soda-fountain.  Of  all  the  things  he  hated — 
and  they  were  many — the  soda-fountain  was  the 
worst.  He  wanted  to  study  a  great  deal,  but  only 
the  studies  he  liked.  Not  algebra  and  geometry, 
nor  chemistry  that  made  his  head  ache,  but  his 
tory  and  poetry  and  French.  He  thought  he 
would  like  to  know  Italian,  too.  The  family  sup 
posed  he  was  still  in  the  drug-store,  but  he  had 
quarrelled  with  his  cousin  and  left  it  a  month  ago. 
He  stayed  mostly  in  the  library  and  helped  the 
janitor  with  sweeping  and  airing  the  rooms.  The 

74 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

janitor  paid  him  a  little  to  ease  his  own  hours  of 
night-watching,  and  often  asked  him  to  supper. 
He  read  nearly  all  day  and  wrote  at  night.  It  was 
better  than  the  mills  or  the  drug-store.  He  sup 
posed  he  was  lazy — his  family  always  said  he 
was. 

"Come  to  this  address  to-morrow  afternoon  and 
bring  the  rest  of  your  poetry  with  you,"  said 
Delafield,  "I  have  an  engagement  at  nine.  May  I 
keep  this  one  till  you  come?" — he  shook  the  fools 
cap  significantly.  The  boy  hesitated,  almost  im 
perceptibly,  then  nodded.  As  Delafield  left  the 
little  table  he  did  not  rise  with  him,  but  sat  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  smoke-rings. 

"They  do  not  teach  courtesy  in  the  night- 
schools,  evidently,"  mused  the  older  man,  peering 
for  a  cab;  "but  one  can't  have  everything.  My 
manners  have  been  on  occasion  commended — but  I 
can't  write  poetry  like  that." 

He  tasted  in  advance  the  pleasure  of  reading 
the  poem  to  Anne:  how  her  brown  eyes  would 
dilate  and  glow,  how  eagerly  her  long,  slender  fin 
gers  would  clasp  and  unclasp.  People  called  her 
75 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

cold,  they  told  him;  for  his  part  he  never  could 
see  why.  True,  she  was  not  kittenish,  like  the  other 
nieces ;  she  didn't  try  to  flirt  with  her  old  uncle,  as 
Ellen's  girls  did;  but  what  an  enthusiasm  for  fine 
things,  what  a  quick,  keen  mind  the  child  had! 
Child — Anne  was  twenty-five  by  now.  Was  it  true 
that  she  might  never  marry?  Ellen  said — but  then 
Ellen  was  always  a  little  jealous  of  poor  Anne's 
money.  The  girl  couldn't  help  her  legacies.  Still, 
at  twenty-five — perhaps  it  was  true  that  she  ex 
pected  too  much,  thought  too  seriously,  reasoned 
morbidly  that  they  were  after  her  money. 

Seated  opposite  her  in  his  favourite  oak  chair, 
looking  with  a  sudden  impersonal  appraisal  at  the 
slender  figure  in  clinging  black  lace,  the  cool  pal 
lor  of  the  face  under  the  smooth  dark  hair,  the 
rope  of  pearls  that  hung  from  her  firm,  girlish 
shoulders,  it  dawned  on  him  that  there  was  some 
thing  wanting  in  this  not  quite  sufficiently  charm 
ing  piece  of  womanhood.  She  was  too  black-and- 
white,  too  unswerving,  too  unflushed  by  life. 
Humanity,  with  its  countless  moulding  and  colour 
ing  touches,  seemed  to  slip  away  from  either  side 

76 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

of  her,  like  the  waves  from  some  proud  young 
prow,  and  fall  behind. 

"Yet  she's  not  unsympathetic — I  swear  she's 
not!"  he  thought,  as  her  eyes  glowed  to  the  poem 
and  her  lips  parted  delightedly. 

"  'And  moored  at  last  in  some  pale  bay' — Uncle 
Les,  isn't  that  beautiful!  Not  that  it's  really  so 
fine  as  the  first  part,  but  it's  easier  to  remember. 
And  he  was  hungry?  Oh,  oh!  And  you  discovered 
him,  didn't  you?" 

He  nodded  complacently. 

"I'll  bring  you  around  the  rest  of  the  things 
to-morrow.  I  knew  you'd  enjoy  this,  Anne.  You 
love — really  love — this  sort  of  thing,  don't  you?" 

She  nodded  eagerly. 

"But  nothing  else?  Nobody — you  don't  think 
that  perhaps  you're  letting — after  all,  my  dear, 
life  is  something  more  than  the  beautiful  things 
you  surround  yourself  with — pictures  and  music 
and  poetry,  and  all  that.  It  really  is.  There  is  so 
much " 

"There  is  one's  religion,"  she  said  quietly  and 
not  uncordially.  But  she  had  retreated  intangibly 
77 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

from  him.  She  sat  there,  remote  as  her  cold  pearls, 
as  far  from  the  rough,  sweet  uses  of  the  world  as 
the  priceless  china  in  her  cabinets. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,  there  is  religion,"  he  an 
swered  listlessly. 

Two  days  later  they  sat,  all  three,  in  her  library, 
while  West  read  them  his  poems.  The  two  looked 
at  each  other  in  amazement.  Where  had  this  un 
trained  factory  boy  got  it  all?  What  wonderful 
voices  had  sung  to  him  above  the  whirring  of  the 
wheels;  what  delicate  visions  had  risen  through 
the  smoky  pall  of  his  sordid  days?  He  wrote  only 
of  Nature:  the  brown  brook  water  in  spring; 
the  pale,  hurrying  leaves  of  November;  a  bird 
glimpsed  through  pink  apple-blossoms;  the  full 
river  encircling  a  bending  elm.  In  the  vivid  swift 
ness  of  effect,  the  simple  subtlety  of  treatment, 
there  was  a  recalling  of  the  Japanese  witchery  of 
suggestion;  the  faint  tinge  of  sadness  in  every 
poem  left  in  the  mind  precisely  the  sweet  regret 
that  the  beauty  of  the  world  must  always  leave. 
At  the  "Clearing  Shower,"  perhaps  the  most  com 
pelling  of  all  his  work,  quick  drops  started  to  the 

78 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

girl's  eyes,  so  intense  was  the  vision  of  the  moist, 
green-breathing  earth,  the  torn  fleece  of  the 
clouds,  the  broken  chirping  of  frightened  birds, 
the  softened,  yellow  light  that  reassures  and  sad 
dens  at  once.  His  art  was  not  Wordsworth's  nor 
Shelley's ;  it  was  as  if  Keats  had  turned  from  hu 
man  passion  and  consecrated  the  beauty  of  his 
verse  to  the  beauty  of  Nature — but  simply,  sadly, 
and  through  a  veil  of  Heine's  tears. 

Delafield  nodded  mutely  to  his  niece,  then 
walked  over  to  the  boy. 

"There  will  be  plenty  of  people  to  tell  you 
later,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  "but  let  me 
be  the  first.  You  are  a  genius,  Mr.  West,  and  your 
country  will  be  proud  of  your  work  some  day. 
There  is  no  American  to-day  writing  such  poetry." 

West  took  his  hand  awkwardly,  not  rising  from 
his  chair.  He  fingered  his  manuscript  nervously. 

"I — I  wouldn't  want  to  be  laughed  at,"  he  de 
murred.  "Other  folks  mightn't  be  so  kind  as  you. 
If  anybody  laughed — I — it  would  just  about  kill 
me !"  he  concluded,  passionately.  They  smiled  sym 
pathetically  at  each  other. 

79 


WHEN     PITPA     PASSED 

"But  no  one  would  laugh,  I  assure  you,  Mr. 
West,"  Anne  murmured,  stooping  to  pick  up  a 
scattered  sheet. 

He  hardly  noticed  her.  His  eyes  were  fixed  con 
stantly  on  Delafield :  the  girl  had  made  no  impres 
sion  upon  him  whatever.  Nor  did  the  elegance  of 
the  furnishings,  the  evidences  of  great  wealth 
everywhere  arouse  in  him  the  least  apparent  curi 
osity.  Having  no  knowledge  of  the  many  grades 
of  material  prosperity  between  his  own  meagre 
surroundings  and  Anne  Delafield's  luxury,  he  ac 
cepted  the  one  as  he  had  endured  the  other,  his 
mind  quite  removed  from  either,  his  eyes  looking 
beyond. 

Anne  had  supposed  that  her  uncle  would  carry 
the  poems  to  one  of  the  leading  magazines,  but  he 
pooh-poohed  the  idea. 

"I  think  not.  We're  not  going  to  have  the  boy 
mixed  up  with  the  hacks  that  turn  out  two  or 
three  inches  of  rhymes  to  fill  up  a  page  in  a  maga 
zine,"  he  declared.  "We'll  have  D drop  in 

some  night  and  West  shall  read  'em  to  him.  Then 

we'll   bring   out   a  book.   Here   and   in   England 

80 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

— they'll  like  him  there,  or  I'm  much  mis 
taken." 

In  a  month  it  seemed  that  they  had  always 
known  him.  Intimacy  was  so  impossible  with  his  in- 
turned,  elusive  nature,  that  to  have  him  sitting 
through  hours  of  silence  by  the  birch  fire,  ab 
stracted,  dreamy,  inattentive,  except  to  some 
chance  word  that  stirred  his  fancy,  was  to  know 
him  well,  to  all  intents.  His  nerves,  dulled  to  all 
great  torments  like  poverty,  hunger,  obscurity, 
quivered  like  violin  strings  under  little  unaccus 
tomed  jarrings.  If  interrupted  in  the  reading  of 
his  verses  he  would  lose  his  control  beyond  belief; 
a  chance  cough,  the  falling  of  an  ember,  put  him 
out  of  tune  for  hours.  He  possessed  little  sense  of 
humour,  and  the  lightest  satire  turned  him  sulky. 
A  child  might  have  teased  him  to  madness;  it  was 
evident  to  them  that  his  utterly  lonely  life  had 
preserved  him  from  constant  torture  at  the  hands 
of  associates. 

Until  the  book  was  complete  he  refused  to  have 
the  great  publisher  brought  to  hear  it  read.  Some 
times  for  days  they  would  not  see  him,  then  on 

81 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

some  rainy  evening  he  would  appear,  lortely  and 
hungry,  eager  for  the  praise  and  warmth  of 
Anne's  library,  an  exquisite  poem  in  his  pocket. 
Served  to  repletion  by  the  secretly  scornful  butler, 
he  would  smoke  a  while,  then  draw  out  the  sheet 
of  foolscap,  and  read  in  his  nervous  yet  musical 
voice  the  latest  page  of  the  book  that  was  to  bring 
him  fame. 

On  one  such  night — it  was  when  he  brought 
them  "Dawn  on  the  River,"  the  only  poem  of 
which  Anne  had  a  copy,  and  the  one  which  a  well- 
known  firm  afterward  printed  under  his  photo 
graph  and  sold  by  thousands  at  Easter-tide — he 
broke  through  the  mist — it  was  too  impalpable  to 
be  called  a  wall  of  reserve — that  held  his  person 
ality  apart  from  them,  and  talked  wonderfully  for 
an  hour.  They  seemed  to  see  the  clear  soul  of  some 
gentle,  strayed  fawn;  his  thoughts  were  like  sum 
mer  clouds  mirrored  in  a  placid  brook.  All  the 
crowding,  sweating  humanity  of  his  stunted  boy 
hood  had  flowed  through  his  youth  like  an  ugly 
drain  laid  through  a  fresh  mountain  stream.  He 
seemed  to  have  lived  all  his  years  with  young 

82 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

David  on  the  hillside,  and  wealth  and  poverty, 
crowds  and  loneliness,  love  and  death  were  as  far 
from  his  life  as  if  the  vast  procession  of  them  all 
that  swept  by  him  daily  through  the  great  city 
had  never  been. 

As  he  talked,  Delafield  found  his  eyes  drawn 
from  the  boy's  face  to  Anne's.  Never  before  had 
he  seen  just  that  faint,  steady  rose  in  her  cheeks, 
that  sweet  glow  in  her  eyes.  As  she  leaned  forward, 
her  very  pearls  seemed  to  catch  a  red  tinge  from 
the  fire:  it  occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that 
she  looked  like  Ellen's  girls — there  was  a  sugges 
tion  of  Kitty  in  the  curve  of  her  cheek. 

Was  it  possible  that  Anne — no,  it  could  not  be. 
To  think  of  the  men  that  had  tried  to  come  into 
her  life  and  failed — such  men !  And  this  boy,  this 
elf,  to  whom  no  woman  was  so  real  or  so  dear  as 
a  tree  in  the  glen! 

For  two  weeks  after  that  night  he  did  not  come. 
Anne  never  mentioned  his  name,  and  Delafield, 
doubtful  of  what  that  might  portend,  tried  to  be 
lieve  that  she  had  forgotten  him.  Toward  the  end 
of  the  second  week  she  spoke  of  the  completion  of 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

his  book,  and  suggested  that  her  uncle  should  in 
vite  Mr.  D :  "Urge  Henry  to  consent  to  it," 

she  added,  "he  will  do  anything  for  you,  Uncle 
Les." 

"More  than  for  you?"  he  asked. 

"For  me?"  She  flushed  a  little.  "I  doubt  if  he 
distinguishes  me  from  my  portrait  over  the  man 
tel!" 

"And  you  wish  that  he  would,"  Delafield  wanted 
to  reply,  trying  to  remember  if  she  had  ever  called 
him  "Henry"  before. 

On  a  warm  April  evening,  when  the  windows 
were  open  to  catch  the  setting  sun  and  the  odour 
of  the  blossoming  window-boxes,  he  came  at  last. 
As  he  stepped  into  the  room,  head  erect,  eyes  wide 
and  bright,  they  became  aware  immediately  of  a 
change  in  him.  His  glance  was  more  conscious, 
more  alert,  his  hand-grasp  more  assured. 

"You  are  in  time  to  dine  with  us,"  Anne  said, 
with  her  grave  smile,  "we  are  all  alone.  Will  you 
stay?" 

"Thanks,  I  can't  stay,  I'm  going  somewhere 
else,"  he  answered  quickly. 

84 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"And  the  new  poem?"  Delafield  inquired,  "did 
you  get  it  done?  That  was  to  be  the  last,  wasn't 
it?" 

"Oh!  I  haven't  been  writing  lately,"  he  ex 
plained,  blushing  a  little.  "I've  been  too  busy — 
that  is,  I've  been  too — I've  been  thinking  of  some 
thing  else."  He  stood  before  them  in  the  full  light 
of  the  late  day;  every  expression  in  his  sensitive, 
mobile  face  showed  clear. 

"A  perfectly  wonderful  thing  has  happened," 
he  burst  out,  "you  couldn't  understand.  Nobody 
can  understand  but  me,  and — and " 

"Who  is  she?"  said  Delafield    bluntly. 

"How  did  you  know?"  cried  the  boy,  "have  you 
seen — did  she  tell " 

"Of  course  not.  When  did  it  happen?" 

Delafield  kept  his  face  persistently  from  Anne's. 
For  the  world  he  could  not  have  looked  at  her. 

"It  was  last  week."  West  was  smiling  eagerly 
at  him,  ignoring  the  woman's  presence. 

"I  went  into  the  grocer's  to  do  an  errand  for 
Mr.  Swazey,  and  she  was  behind  the  little  grat 
ing — you  pay  her.  She  is  the  cashier.  I  didn't  take 

85 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

my  change,  and  she  had  to  call  me  back,  and  we 
dropped  it  all  over  the  floor.  She  helped  me  pick 
it  up.  Oh,  if  you  could  see  her,  Mr.  Delafield !" 

"Is  she  handsome?" 

"She  is  a  perfectly  beautiful  woman,"  said  the 
boy. 

"Dear,  dear!"  murmured  the  older  man. 

"We  are  engaged,  but  her  mother  objects  to 
me.  In  fact — in  fact,  her  mother  doesn't  know  that 
she  is  engaged.  She  has  been  engaged  before.  But 
she  never  really  loved  the  man.  Her  mother  doesn't 
care  for  poetry " 

At  that  word,  Delafield,  with  a  distinct  effort, 
connected  this  babbling  druggist's  clerk  with  his 
poet  of  "The  Clearing  Shower."  There  could  be 
no  doubt  that  they  were  the  same  person.  As  in 
a  dream  he  listened  to  the  boy. 

"And  that's  what  I  dropped  in  to  see  about.  I 
told  her  mother  all  you  said  about  me  being  sure 
to  be  well-off  some  day,  and  about  the  book  being 
published  soon,  and  her  brother,  that's  Pippa's 
uncle " 

"What  name  did  you  say?" 
86 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"Pippa.  That's  her  name.  Philippa  it  is  really; 
she  was  named  after  the  daughter  of  a  lady  her 
mother  nursed  when  she  was  sick,  and  so  she  named 
her  after  this  lady's  daughter.  But  she  couldn't 
say  it  plain,  you  see,  so  she  always  called  herself 
Pippa  for  short,  and  so  they  all  call  her  that  still. 
I  suppose  you  never  heard  it  before — I  never  did." 

"It  is  a  strange  name — for  a  cashier,"  said  Mr. 
Delafield. 

"Yes,  indeed.  Well,  her  Uncle  Joseph  is  a  ste 
nographer  in  a  newspaper  office,  and  he  knows  a 
good  deal  about  this  sort  of  thing,  and  he  says 

not  to  publish  with  the  D s.  He  says  they're 

a  poky  firm  and  don't  advertise  enough.  If  I  gave 

the  book  to  the  L s  they'd  push  it  along,  he 

says.    He    says    they'd    make   anything   sell.    The 

D s  wouldn't  put  up  posters   on  bill-boards, 

now,  would  they?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Delafield.  He  felt  unac 
countably  tired.  He  had  not  realised  till  now  how 
much  his  mind  had  been  filled  with  Henry  West 
nnd  his  poetry,  how  much  he  had  anticipated  in 
troducing  his  rare  young  protege. 

87 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"And  of  course  I  want  to  do  the  best  for  my 
self " 

"  Of  course,  beyond  a  doubt." 

How  could  a  person  change  so  in  two  weeks? 
What  had  turned  that  sensitive  dreamer  into  this 
bustling  young  lover? 

"You  see,  sir,  I've  got  a  good  many  things  to 
consider,"  he  smiled  happily. 

"Certainly,  West,  I  appreciate  that.  At  the 
same  time  I  doubt  if  you  will  do  better  with  any 
body  than  you  can  with  Mr.  D .  It  may  be  the 

L s  wouldn't  want  your  book.  It  is  not  what 

is  known  as  a  popular  book,  you  know.  Poetry 
appeals  to  a  limited  public,  and " 

"L.i,  well,  it's  all  right.  Only  I  thought  you 
might  want  to  know  what  Uncle  Joseph  said, 
that's  all.  I  must  go  now,"  and  he  turned. 

"Miss  Delafield  is  still  here,"  said  her  uncle, 
coldly. 

"Oh,  good-night,"  West  murmured,  and  left  the 
room. 

"Is  it  really  he?"  Delafield  hazarded,  hardly 
glancing  at  her.  She  met  his  look  calmly. 

88 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"At  any  rate  the  book  is  ready,  which  is  the 
principal  thing,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 

He  found  himself  illogically  wishing  she  had 
resented  it  more.  "It  was  a  mistake,"  he  thought, 
"she  has  no  feeling  for  him." 

Through  the  weeks  that  followed  they  avoided 
mentioning  his  name,  and  each,  trusting1  that  the 
other  would  forget,  thought  of  him  in  puzzled 
silence. 

When  he  came  to  them  next,  toward  the  end  of 
May,  it  seemed  for  a  moment,  as  he  flung  himself 
into  a  chair  and  stared  moodily  at  the  empty  fire 
place,  that  his  old  self  had  returned.  Thin  and 
shabby,  with  dark  rings  under  his  eyes,  he  Ir  ved 
like  the  boy  Delafield  had  warmed  and  fed  that 
cold  March  night.  But  his  words  undeceived  them. 

"I  shall  shoot  myself  if  this  doesn't  stop,"  he 
said  bitterly.  Anne  started. 

"Here,  here,  West,  none  of  that,"  the  older  man 
corrected,  sharply.  "That's  no  thing  to  say — 
what  is  the  matter?" 

"It's  Pippa,"  he  returned,  simply.  "She  won't 
marry  me.  I'll  kill  myself  if  she  don't.  I  can't  eat, 

89 


WHEN    PIPPA    PASSED 

I  can't  sleep,  I  can't  think.  It  cuts  into  me  night 
and  day.  You  don't  know  how  it  kills  me — you 
don't  know!" 

He  writhed  like  a  child  in  physical  pain.  His 
face  was  distorted:  he  made  no  more  effort  to  con 
ceal  his  misery  than  his  delight  of  weeks  ago. 
Delafield  showed  a  little  of  his  disgust. 

"Come,  come,  West,"  he  said,  "control  yourself. 
This  is  no  killing  matter.  Better  men  than  you 
have  been  thrown  over  before  this.  If  she  won't 
have  you,  take  it  like  a  man,  and  get  to  work. 
It's  time  your  book  was  under  way." 

West  stared  dully  at  him. 

"Book?  book?"  he  repeated.  "Oh,  damn  the 
book!  I'd  throw  it  away  this  minute  to  feel  her 
arms  around  me!  When  I  think  of  how  we  used 
to  sit  in  Uncle  Joseph's  hammock — Oh,  I  can't 
endure  it,  I  can't!" 

He  leaned  his  head  on  his  arms  and  rocked  to 
and  fro  in  abject  misery. 

"She  laughs  at  me — just  laughs  at  me!"  he 
moaned.  "I'm  ashamed  to  go  near  them." 

"Keep  away,  then,"  said  Delafield   shortly. 
90 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"I  can't !"  he  fairly  sobbed. 

Anne  spoke  softly  from  a  dim  corner: 

"Does  she  know  about  the  book?" 

"She  doesn't  care  anything  about  it.  She  says 
I  better  be  getting  a  job  somewhere.  I — I  would, 
if  she'd  marry  me.  I'd  go  to  the  drug-store!" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  breathed. 

"If  only  she'd  be  engaged  again,"  he  muttered, 
half  to  himself,  "I'd  finish  the  book,  and  then, 

perhaps "  He  began  to  rock  again.  "But  she 

won't,  she  won't!"  he  wailed. 

"If  you  will  tell  me  where  she  lives,"  said  Anne 
quietly,  and  as  if  the  conversation  were  to  the  last 
degree  conventional,  "I  will  go  to  see  her  and 
talk  the  matter  over.  Perhaps  she  doesn't  under 
stand " 

"My  dear  Anne !  Are  you  mad  ?" 

As  Delafield  spoke,  West  interrupted: 

"I'd  rather  Mr.  Delafield  would  go,"  he  said 
quickly,  "if — if  he  would.  Maybe  she'd  listen  to 
you." 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  Delafield  re 
turned  angrily.  "As  if  anything  I  could  say 

91 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

could  compare  with  Miss  Delafield's  words!  You 
are  an  ungrateful  little  beast,  West.  A  woman, 
like  Pippa  herself,  is  the  best  person  to  under 
stand  the  matter." 

"All  right,"  the  boy  assented  wearily,  "only 
she  isn't  like  Pippa,  not  a  bit.  Pippa's  different." 

Anne  coloured  deeply,  and  Delafield  cursed  the 
day  he  met  the  boy.  His  niece  he  did  not  pretend  to 
understand. 

The  next  afternoon,  as  he  chafed  in  the  stuffy 
dining-room-parlour  of  the  flat  that  was  Pippa's 
home,  listening  to  the  quarrelling  of  a  half  dozen 
children  on  the  dreary  little  roof-garden  below 
him  as  to  who  should  swing  in  Uncle  Joseph's  ham 
mock,  he  understood  her  less  and  less.  What  did 
she  expect  to  gain  from  this  visit?  Was  she  satis 
fying  her  idea  of  duty  or  her  curiosity  ?  How  much 
did  she  care,  anyhow? 

A  steady  murmur  of  voices  came  from  a  room 
behind  the  one  he  occupied.  The  afternoon  wore 
on.  He  began  to  grow  sleepy. 

At  last  the  door  was  flung  open.  Anne,  looking 
pale  and  tired,  entered  the  room,  followed  by  a 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

large,  handsome  girl  with  a  heavy  rope  of  auburn 
hair  twisted  low  over  her  forehead.  She  had  a 
frank,  vulgar  smile,  and  shallow,  red-brown  eyes. 
In  her  plump,  large-limbed  beauty  she  was  like  a 
well-kept  cat.  The  day  was  damp  and  hot,  and 
her  mussed  white  shirt-waist  clung  to  her  broad 
curve  of  shoulder  and  breast.  In  her  eyes,  as  she 
smiled  at  him,  was  the  quiet  ease  of  a  conscious 
beauty.  Beside  her  Anne  seemed  unimportant. 

"I'm  sorry  about  the  book,  Mr.  Delafield,"  she 
said,  with  a  slow  smile.  "But  I  guess  you  don't 
know  Henry  very  well  if  you  think  any  reasonable 
girl  would  think  of  marrying  him  for  a  minute. 
The  gentleman  I've  been  keeping  company  with 
some  time  had  a  little  misunderstanding  with  me, 
and  'twas  more  or  less  to  spite  him,  I  guess,  that 
I  got  engaged  to  Henry.  It  never  seemed  to  me 
it  mattered  much  either  way." 

"You  have  broken  his  heart,"  said  Delafield 
stiffly. 

She  looked  vaguely  at  her  short,  fat  fingers: 
her  hands  were  like  a  baby's  in  shape. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "He's  an  awful 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

unreasonable  fellow,  Henry  is.  He  gets  into  such 
tantrums — I  don't  dare  tell  him  about  Mr.  Winch 
— that's  the  gentleman  I  was  speaking  of.  We're 
going  to  be  married  in  the  fall.  He's  in  a  livery- 
stable  :  I  guess  you  probably  noticed  it  as  you  came 
along  Sixth  Avenue — Judd  and  Winch.  He's  only 
junior  partner,  but  he  knows  as  much  about  run 
ning  a  real  swell  funeral  as  any  of  the  uptown 
men — Mr.  Judd  says  so.  Henry's  afraid  of  a  horse, 
you  know.  It  don't  seem  quite  natural  for  a  man 
not  to  know  about  horses,  does  it,  now?" 

V;. 

"If  you  had  only  waited  till  his  book  came  out," 
said  Delafield  tentatively.  As  he  looked  at  her  he 
was  conscious  of  *a  ridiculous  satisfaction  that  such 
a  fine  woman  should  know  her  own  mind  so  per 
fectly.  She  was  a  very  complete  creature,  in  her 
way.  He  realised  that  in  this  strangely  assorted 
quartette  he  and  she  were  involuntarily  on  one 
side  of  an  intangible  line,  his  niece  and  their  unin 
telligible  protege  on  the  other. 

"Wait?  But  I  did  wait.  I  waited  over  a  week," 
she  explained,  "and  then  I  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer.  He'd  drive  me  to  drink.  For  one  thing, 

94 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

she  was  so  angry.  Of  course  it  excites  the  others 
— they  haven't  much  to  think  about,  you  know — 
and  I'm  really  growing  nervous.  Old  William 
Peterson,  that  gentle  old  man,  preached  a  re 
vivalist  sermon  day  before  yesterday,  and  got 
them  all  stirred  up,  so  that  Mrs.  Sheldon  groaned 
and  cried  all  night,  and  kept  Sarah  Waters  awake. 
And  when  Sarah  stays  awake  all  night,  there's 
no  living  with  her — none!" 

Mr.  Freeland  looked  frankly  puzzled.  He  was 
not  a  particularly  able  man,  and  very  far  from 
originality  of  any  sort.  His  doctrinal  position, 
though  always  considered  very  solid,  was  some 
what  stereotyped,  and  he  had  never  happened  to 
run  against  this  peculiar  form  of  apostasy.  But  he 
was  a  kindly  man,  and  very  honestly  convinced  of 
the  responsibility  of  his  position;  moreover,  he  re 
membered  Harriet  pleasantly ;  he  had  thought  her 
a  very  nice  old  lady.  So  he  took  his  little  Bible  out 
of  his  pocket,  and  hoped  that  a  desire  to  succeed 
where  Mr.  Dent  and  Dr.  Henshawe  had  failed 
would  not  be  accounted  to  him  for  unrighteous 
ness. 

109 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

Mrs.  Markham  led  the  way  across  the  hall  and 
up  the  stairs.  Before  a  door  she  paused  to  say, 
"As  long  as  Harriet  is  upset  in  this  way  she  has 
the  room  alone,  because  Mary  Smith  scolds  her  all 
night  for  being  so  sinful,  and  it  makes  them  both 
cross.  Mary  is  in  the  hall-room,  and  talks  in  her 
sleep  so  that  nobody  can  rest  very  well.  It  doesn't 
disturb  Harriet  at  all,  she's  such  a  sound  sleeper, 
and  I  wish  she  could  go  back !  You  don't  know 
how  this  disturbs  us!  Remember  that  we  have 
prayer-meeting  at  half-past  four,"  and  she  left 
him  alone  before  the  door. 

Mr.  Freeland  knocked  loudly  and  entered.  Be 
fore  him  in  the  clean,  bare  room,  with  its  rag- 
carpets,  mats,  and  pine  furnishings,  sat  a  little 
old  woman,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  head 
erect,  her  eyes  fixed  uncompromisingly  on  the 
door.  He  started  as  he  saw  her  face;  it  was  so 
changed  from  the  time,  two  weeks  or  more  ago, 
when  he  had  delivered  that  admirable  prayer  for 
charity  and  loving  kindness  on  the  occasion  when 
the  Widow  Sheldon  had  thrown  the  butter-plate 
at  old  Mis'  Landers.  Thin  and  sunken,  with  dark 
110 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

serried  hollows  under  her  still  bright  eyes — she 
had  aged  ten  years  in  those  weeks. 

"My  sister,  my  poor,  suffering,  misled  sister," 
began  the  pastor;  but  Harriet's  eyes  flashed 
ominously. 

"If  you  come  to  talk  to  me  about  that  Holy 
Ghost,  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say,"  she  declared, 
"an'  if  you  think  I'm  goin'  to  say  another  word 
myself,  you're  mistaken.  I'm  a  pore  sinful  woman, 
but  I  ain't  goin'  to  be  pestered  t'  death !  I'm  doin' 
the  best  I  can  'bout  it,  an'  I've  prayed  'bout  it, 
an'  Mr.  Dent  an'  a  Papist,  they  both  talked  'bout 
it  till  I  nearly  died.  I  don't  see  any  more  sense 
in  it  than  I  did  before — not  a  morsel.  So  if  that's 
what  brought  you,  you  might  just  as  well  start 
back  this  minute!" 

Her  reverend  guest  stared  at  her  dumfounded. 
Was  this  the  little  woman  who  had  pressed  his 
hand  at  the  prayer-meeting  and  thanked  him  so 
piously,  so  meekly,  for  such  "beautiful  pray- 
in'?" 

"You  are  greatly  changed  since  I  saw  you  last, 
Miss  Blake,"  he  said  gravely.  "Your  spirit  was 
III 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

gentler,  your  mind  was  more  religiously  inclined. 
I  found  you " 

"You  didn't  find  me  pestered  t'  death,"  said 
Harriet  briefly,  somewhat  mollified  by  his  "Miss 
Blake." 

"I  was  led  to  believe  that  you  were  suffer 
ing,  that  you  were  in  trouble,"  hazarded  the 
pastor. 

Never  in  his  somewhat  self-sufficient  life  had  he 
felt  such  difficulty  in  giving  spiritual  advice.  Even 
to  his  thick-skinned  personality  it  was  deeply  evi 
dent  that  this  sharp-tongued  little  woman  was  in 
great  trouble.  Ordinarily,  a  certain  facility  for 
quotation  and  application  made  him  a  confident 
speaker,  but  to-day  he  felt  impeded,  held  back 
by  the  self-control  and  patience  of  his  listener. 
For  he  saw  that  she  was  patient;  that  she 
could  say  much  more  if  she  chose;  that  she 
was,  beneath  all  her  sharpness,  alarmed  and  wor 
ried. 

His  somewhat  perplexed  air,  his  evident  mem 
ory  of  her  earlier  estate,  his  startled  recognition 
of  her  changed  appearance  had  the  effect  that 
113 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

nothing  else  could  have  had.  Her  hands  twisted 
nervously  in  her  lap,  her  mouth  twitched,  she 
dropped  her  eyes,  and  opened  her  lips  once  or 
twice  without  speaking.  Suddenly,  with  a  little 
gasp,  she  began : 

"If  you  think  I  don't  care,  you're  mistaken. 
I'm  just  about  sick.  I  been  a  Christian  and  a 
good  believer  all  my  life,  and  now  I  ain't.  Maybe 
I  don't  care  about  that?  They  just  pester  me 
t'  death,  and  Mis'  Markham,  she  can't  stop  'em. 
They'll  send  me  back  to  Sarah's,  that's  my  niece, 
and  they  can't  keep  me  there.  They  ain't  good  to 
me  there,  and  I  get  fever  'n  ague  every  day  o' 
my  life  there.  But  I  can't  help  it — I  can't  help 
it!  I  got  ter  go!" 

Some  good  angel  held  Mr.  Freeland  silent,  and 
after  a  moment  she  went  on. 

"I'm  sixty-two  years  old,  and  I  never  was  any 
thing  but  a  churchgoer  an'  a  believer.  Two  weeks 
ago  to-day  I  set  in  this  chair  an'  looked  out  the 
winder,  an'  I  see  the  birds  pickin'  in  the  front 
yard." 

He  followed  her  eyes  and  watered  for  a  mo- 
113 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

ment  the  poor  house  pigeons  preening  and  posing 
in  the  noon  sun.  They  whitened  the  summer  grass, 
and  their  clucking  and  cooing  formed  the  under 
tone  of  the  old  woman's  confession. 

"I  see  'em  there,  and  I  got  thinkin'  about  the 
dove  in  my  Bible  an'  the  Holy  Ghost.  And  it  just 
come  into  my  mind  like  a  shot — what's  the  good 
of  it?  What'd  it  ever  done  for  me?  What's  the 
sense  of  a  bird,  anyhow?  An'  I  worked  over  it, 
and  I  worried  over  it,  an'  I  got  to  talkin'  with  Mis' 
Sheldon  about  it  while  we  was  workin'  together,  and 
she  just  made  me  hate  it  more.  She  said  I'd  go  to 
hell — me,  a  believer  for  sixty-two  years!  An'  I've 
cried  till  I  can't  cry  any  more,  an'  I've  prayed 
till  I'm  tired  of  prayin',  and  nothin'  happens  to 
me  exceptin'  I  hate  it  more.  An'  if  they  send  me 
back  to  Sarah's  I'll  die,  that's  the  truth.  But  I'll 
have  t'  go— I'll  have  t'  go!" 

She  rocked  back  and  forth,  dry-eyed,  but  in  an 
agony  of  grief.  The  pastor  remembered  the  time 
when  he  had  wrestled  with  certain  damnation  in 
the  form  of  terrible  religious  doubt,  and  experi 
enced  again  that  peculiar  helplessness,  that  isola- 


WHEN     P  I  P  P  A     PASSED 

Henry's  changed  so.  When  we  first  knew  him  he 
was  really  as  entertaining  a  gentleman  as  I  ever 
saw — and  I've  had  a  great  deal  of  attention.  Why, 
we'd  sit  around  and  laugh  till  we  nearly  died,  he'd 
say  such  ridiculous  things.  He  was  so  different. 
Ma  used  to  say  if  he  was  much  funnier  she'd  think 
he'd  ought  to  have  a  keeper!  The  way  he'd  go 
on !" 

Anne  had  turned  her  back  and  was  looking 
steadily  at  the  room  they  had  left.  Pippa  and 
Delafield  might  have  been  alone. 

"But  when  we  got  engaged,  he  seemed  to 
change,  somehow.  I  don't  know  if  you've  noticed 

it — -  „ 

Delafield  nodded. 

"Well,  that's  what  I  mean.  I  didn't  care  any 
more  about  him,  then.  I  guess  I  sort  of  woke  up," 
she  laughed  into  his  eyes.  "He  tires  me  to  death 
with  how  he'll  shoot  himself,"  she  added;  "they 
always  say  that,  you  know,  but  they  never 
do." 

Anne  moved  toward  the  door  and  Delafield  fol 
lowed  her. 

95 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"I  must  say  that  I  appreciate  your  position, 
Miss — Miss — "  he  stopped,  inquiringly. 

"Cooley — Miss  Philippa  Cooley,"  she  supplied. 
"Of  course  you  do.  Ma  said  she  hoped  I'd  have 
too  much  sense  to  stand  up  with  a  little  radish 
of  a  man  like  that,  even  if  he  could  support 
me!" 

"But  I  think  it  was  rather  hard  on  all  of  us 
that  you  should  have  engaged  yourself  to  him  at 
all.  You  must  have  known  how  it  would  end."  He 
tried  to  speak  reprovingly. 

She  threw  him  a  rich  glance. 

"Oh,  you  can't  help  it  sometimes,"  she  mur 
mured.  "He  teased  so  hard — you  don't  want  to 
be  disagreeable.  As  I  was  telling  Miss  Dela- 
field " 

"We  must  go,"  said  Anne,  briefly. 

As  they  drove  home,  an  inexplicable  desire  to 
provoke  her,  to  rouse  some  warm  feeling  in  her, 
mastered  him. 

"Your  Aunt  Ellen  would  enjoy  this  deep  interest 
in  the  love  affairs  of  an  ex-druggist's  clerk  and  a 
grocer's  cashier,"  he  said  lightly. 

96 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

"Would  she?"  Anne  returned  quietly,  and  was 
ashamed  of  his  freakish  impulse. 

When  they  told  him  that  evening  that  they  had 
been  able  to  accomplish  nothing  he  only  stared  at 
them  gloomily. 

"I  knew  it — I  knew  it,"  he  muttered.  "I  did  a 
poem  last  night — it's  the  last  I  shall  ever  do.  You 
can  put  it  in  the  book.  It's  the  best  I've  done  yet." 

Delafield  hardly  noticed  his  words  as  he  seized 
the  poem.  What  if  from  this  sordid  little  tragedy 
had  sprung  the  very  flower  of  the  poet's  genius? 
He  read  eagerly.  In  a  moment  his  face  fell.  He 
stared  doubtfully  at  the  boy. 

"Well,"  said  West  irritably,  "can't  you  read 
it?  Give  it  here — I'll  read  it  to  you." 

"You  needn't,  I  can  read  it  well  enough." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  think  it's  rot,"  Delafield  returned  curtly.  He 
was  bitterly  disappointed. 

"Rot?"  the  boy's  eyes  narrowed.  "What  d'you 
mean  ?" 

"I  mean  that  this  doggerel  is  utterly  unworthy 
of  you,  West,  and  that  you  certainly  cannot  in- 

97 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

elude  it  in  your  book.  It  is  the  cheapest  sentimen- 
talism — good  heavens,  can't  you  see  it?  Have  you 
no  critical  faculty  whatever?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Lester,  don't!"  Anne  implored. 
"Let  me  see  it,"  and  she  put  out  her  hand.  The 
young  man  struck  it  away  and  seized  the  paper. 

"I  won't  trouble  you  with  my  'rot'  any  more, 
Mr.  Delafield,"  he  said,  with  a  boyish  grandilo 
quence,  "we'll  see  what  other  people  have  to  say 
about  it." 

"Here,  West,  don't  go  away  angry!"  the 
older  man  urged,  "I  shouldn't  have  been  so 
harsh.  You've  done  such  fine  work  that  I  couldn't 
bear " 

"Oh,  hush  your  noise!"  West  interrupted,  bru 
tally,  "neither  can  I  bear !  You've  driven  me  to 
death  between  you  all  —  you'll  never  see  me 
again!"  and  he  flung  out  of  the  room. 

Delafield  set  his  teeth.  "This  is  too  much,"  he 
said  slowly.  "The  vulgar  little  cad!  No,  I  won't 
go  after  him,  Anne;  let  him  fume  it  out  himself. 

I'll  try  to  ask  D over  next  week,  just  the 

same." 


WHEN     PIPPA     PASSED 

But  when  Mr.  D came  over,  full  of  pleas 
ant  anticipation,  it  was  only  to  hear  of  the  shock 
ing  death  of  the  boy,  whose  photograph,  taken 
from  a  cheap  gilt  locket  of  Pippa's,  he  afterward 
used  over  the  popular  gift-card,  "Dawn  on  the 
River." 

"Couldn't  even  shoot  himself  like  a  gentleman," 
said  Delafield  roughly.  "Jumping  seven  stories — 
pah!" 

"But  the  poems — the  poems?"  urged  the  pub 
lisher,  "surely  they " 

Anne  took  from  the  table  an  oblong  tin  biscuit- 
box  and  softly  lifted  the  cover. 

"Here  are  the  poems,"  she  said,  pointing  to  a 
mass  of  fine,  grey  paper-ashes. 

"He  sent  them  to  you?" 

Mr.  D 's  eyes  lighted  comprehensively;  he 

glanced  at  the  girl's  white  face  and  inscrutable 
dark-ringed  eyes  with  a  restrained  sympathy. 

"He  sent  them  to  my  uncle,"  she  replied  quietly. 


THE    BACKSLIDING    OF 
HARRIET     BLAKE 


J.  HE  Rev.  Mr.  Freeland  looked  down  the  long, 
narrow  poorhouse  table,  and  then  glanced  inquir 
ingly  at  the  matron. 

"What  has  become  of  Harriet  Blake,  Mrs. 
Markham?"  he  asked.  "I  thought  she  sat  at  this 
table — I  hope  she's  not  ill?" 

"Harriet's  backslid,"  announced  the  Widow 
Sheldon  laconically.  She  was  a  Baptist,  of  the 
variety  sometimes  known  as  hard-shelled,  and  made 
nothing  of  interrupting  the  discourse  of  any  rep 
resentative  of  a  denomination  unpleasing  to  her. 

"Backslid?"  repeated  the  reverend  guest,  drop 
ping  his  napkin. 

"She  don't  believe  in " 

"Harriet,"    interrupted   the   matron,   somewhat 

crossly,  and  with  an  unconcealed  frown   for  the 

Widow   Sheldon,   "Harriet   is   taking  her  dinner 

alone.  She — she  is  not  quite  well,  I  think.  I  will 

103 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

speak  to  you  about  her  later,"  she  added  as  the 
pastor's  eyes  grew  round  at  her.  The  widow 
Sheldon  sniffed  loudly. 

"A  person  who  has  ter  have  her  vittles  carried 
up  ter  the  bed-chamber  on  account  o'  losing  any 
little  faith  she  might  'a  had,"  she  began,  but  old 
Uncle  Peterson  broke  in  with  his  gentle  drawl: 

"Oh,  come  on,  Mis'  Sheldon,  don't  go  and  spile 
a  good  biled  dinner  with  words  o'  bitterness,"  he 
urged.  "Harriet's  a  good  woman,  as  is  known  to 
all,  and  if  she's  travellin'  through  dark  ways  just 
now " 

The  pastor  looked  puzzled,  but  he  saw  that  the 
subject  was  better  left  alone:  previous  visits  to 
the  poorhouse  had  led  him  to  dread  the  Widow 
Sheldon's  tongue.  He  nodded  approvingly  at 
Uncle  Peterson. 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,"  he  said  quickly. 
"That's  the  spirit  for  us  all  to  have.  Shall  I  ask 
the  blessing,  Mrs.  Markham?"  And  the  meal 
went  on. 

But  there  was  something  in  the  air  that  hot 
Sunday  noon ;  something  that  lent  variety  to  the 
104 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

usual  monotony  of  the  querulous  meal-times.  There 
was  less  comment  on  the  food  than  was  usual,  and 
the  Widow  Sheldon's  resentful  silence  was  more 
impressive  than  her  ordinary  vindictive  volubility. 
It  appeared  that  something  had  actually  hap 
pened. 

Once  in  her  private  sitting-room  the  matron 
began,  low-voiced,  with  an  occasional  glance  at  the 
closed  door,  as  if  to  make  certain  that  no  curious 
inmate  lurked  behind  it: 

"If  Harriet  Blake  doesn't  grow  more  sensible 
very  soon  I  shall  certainly  go  crazy ;  I  invited  you, 
Mr.  Freeland,  to  dinner  to-day  because  Harriet 
used  to  like  your  prayers  in  the  afternoon,  and 
it  may  help  her  to  talk  to  you^but  I  don't  know. 
She's  a  very  obstinate  old  lady.  The  whole  house 
talks  about  nothing  else,  and  she's  just  morbid 
enough  to  like  it.  They  gossip  about  her  and  fight 
about  her  till  the  air  is  blue  with  it.  It  was  bad 
enough  at  election  time,  but  religion  is  worse  than 
politics." 

The  pastor  made  as  if  he  would  interrupt,  but 
she  overbore  him. 

105 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

"If  you  can't  stop  her  she  must  go  home  to 
her  niece,  though  she  can't  really  afford  to  keep 
her  and  oughtn't  to  be  asked " 

"Do  I  understand  that  Harriet  is  in  doubt — 
has  lost  her  Christian  faith?" 

"Oh,  well — no;  but  in  a  way  I  suppose  she 
has.  She  says  that  she — she  can't  see — in  fact, 
she  doesn't  believe  any  more  in  the  Holy 
Ghost!" 

"Doesn't  believe  in  h — in  it?"  Mr.  Freeland 
was  absolutely  unprepared  for  precisely  this  form 
of  agnosticism,  and  showed  it. 

"She  says  she  doesn't  see  any  sense  in  it,"  re 
sponded  Mrs.  Markham,  briefly. 

"Oh — ah,  yes !"  The  pastor  looked  vaguely  over 
her  head.  There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  gathered 
himself  together. 

"But  this — this  is  all  wrong !"  he  said   forcibly. 

"So  we  tell  her,"  replied  the  matron. 

"It  is  sinful — it  is  extremely  dangerous!"  he 
repeated,  still  more  forcibly. 

"That's  what  the  Widow  Sheldon  says,"  replied 
the  matron.  "She  lectures  her  about  it  every  meal, 
106 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

and  Harriet  can't  stand  it.  She  says  she  can't  help 
what  she  believes,  and  I  can't  blame  her  for 
that." 

"How  long " 

"  She's  been  so  for  two  weeks  now,  and  she  gets 
worse  and  worse.  I  had  the  Methodist  minister — 
Harriet  used  to  attend  that  church — up  to  talk 
to  her  about  it,  to  see  if  she'd  feel  better,  and  he 
talked  for  four  hours.  Harriet  sat  as  still  as  a 
stone,  he  said,  and  never  moved  or  paid  the  least 
attention  to  him.  Finally  he  asked  her  why  she 
didn't  answer,  and  she  said  he  hadn't  asked  her 
opinion  that  she  could  see.  So  he  asked  her  what  it 
was,  and  she  said  that  the  Lord  Almighty  created 
the  earth  and  that  his  Son,  the  Redeemer,  saved 
it,  and  she  didn't  see  anything  more  for  the  Holy 
Ghost  to  do.  And  everything  that  he  told  her  she 
said  one  or  the  other  could  do  perfectly  well  alone ! 
And  the  angrier  Mr.  Dent  got,  the  calmer  Harriet 
was,  I  suppose,  for  he  left  in  a  rage,  almost — 
I  suppose  it  was  trying,  even  for  a  minister — and 
when  I  went  up  to  Harriet  she  seemed  very  calm. 
She  told  me  triumphantly  that  the  last  thing  she 
107 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

did  was  to  show  him  that  big  Bible  of  hers  with 
the  picture  in  the  front,  where  she's  crossed  out 
the  figure  of  the  dove  with  ink,  and  to  tell  him 
that  she  was  no  Papist,  to  worship  graven  images 
of  birds!" 

Mr.  Freeland  shook  his  head  gravely.  "Dear, 
dear,  dear!"  he  said. 

"And  then  I  got  Dr.  Henshawe  from  St.  Mary's, 
in  the  city,  you  know,  who's  out  here  this  summer, 
to  come  in.  He's  a  very  fine  man,  and  very  inter 
esting.  He  stayed  a  while  with  Harriet,  and  told 
her  not  to  mind,  but  to  go  on,  and  pray,  and  do 
the  best  she  could,  and  she  couldn't  be  blamed. 
He  told  me  afterwards  that  he  was  far  from  con 
sidering  her  religious  condition  a  safe  one,  but 
that  she  would  soon  be  ill,  and  was  growing  mor 
bid,  and  he  tried  to  soothe  her.  She  fell  into  a 
dreadful  passion,  and  called  him  a  lukewarm 
Jesuit,  and  told  him  that  she  was  going  to  hell 
just  because  she  couldn't  believe  in  the  Holy 
Ghost!  He  was  very  polite  and  quiet,  and  picked 
a  rose  when  he  went — he  complimented  the  house 
— but  Harriet  wouldn't  eat  any  dinner  nor  tea, 
108 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

tion,  that  terror  of  hope  gone  from  him  that  had 
dignified  even  his  commonplace  life.  His  vocabu 
lary  forsook  him,  his  periods  and  phrases  receded 
from  his  mind  like  the  tide  from  the  beach,  and 
left  it  bare  of  suggestion.  He  looked  at  her  for  a 
moment,  and  as  she  bent  her  tired  old  head  over 
her  arm  and  sobbed  the  dry,  creaking  sob  of 
the  ageing  spirit  that  looks  forward  to  no  long 
and  gayer  future,  he  felt  that  the  time  was  short 
and  kindness  not  too  lenient  for  the  sinner. 

"I  will  send  my  wife  over,"  he  said,  suddenly. 
"Would — would  you  want  to  see  her?" 

Harriet  had  stiffened  again  and  got  herself  in 
hand.  "I  don't  want  that  any  one  should  put  'em- 
selves  out  for  me,"  she  said  dryly.  "I  guess  I'll 
get  along.  I'd  just  as  lief  see  Mis'  Freeland  if  it 
ain't  any  trouble  to  any  one.  But  I  don't  know 
as  anybody  c'n  do  anything.  I  ain't  very  pleasant 
comp'ny.  An'  I  dunno  as  the  room  's  cleared  up 
enough.  I  ain't  swept  it  sence  day  before  yester- 
day." 

Her  guest  had  risen  and  moved  toward  the  door. 
He  felt  curiously  cold  and  dull.  Was  this  the 
115 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

help  he  had  come  to  give?  His  tongue  was 
tied ;  his  lips  refused  to  utter  even  one  text. 

"Good-afternoon,  Miss  Blake,"  he  said. 

"Good-afternoon,"  said  Harriet,  and  he  went 
out. 

She  shut  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood  for  a 
moment  looking  at  the  pigeons.  Emotion  had 
shaken  her  too  often  of  late,  and  she  was  too  tired 
to  bear  more  confusion  of  feeling.  She  only  knew 
that  she  was  very  tired,  and  that  she  should  like 
to  get  away  from  the  scene  of  so  many  struggles. 
Suddenly  she  took  her  gingham  sunbonnet  from 
the  wall,  and  left  the  room.  She  went  softly  down 
the  hall,  and  slipping  through  the  screen  door  near 
the  lower  end  crept  down  the  back  stairs  and 
through  the  deserted  kitchen. 

A  Sunday  stillness  reigned  there,  and  no  one 
was  near  to  see  her.  She  got  a  piece  of  bread  from 
the  large  pantry,  and  noticed  with  disgust  that 
the  shelves  were  dusty  and  the  bread-tin  full  of 
pieces  and  crusts.  To  keep  this  neat  was  her  work, 
but  she  had  been  excused  for  the  last  three  days, 
since  she  was  far  too  weak  to  manage  it.  Out 
116 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

through  the  last  blind-door,  and  she  was  in  the  field 
behind  the  barn.  She  walked  feverishly  to  the  little 
wood  close  by  and  sank  down  exhausted  under  a 
large  chestnut-tree. 

"I'm  tired — I'm  dead  tired  out!"  she  whispered 
to  herself.  "I'll  just  stay  here  a  minute  'fore  I 
go  on." 

Had  Mr.  Freeland  seen  her  then  he  would  have 
been  more  startled  than  before,  for  two  red 
spots  burned  in  her  sunken  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
glittered  unnaturally.  She  had  not  eaten  since 
breakfast,  for  the  boiled  dinner  had  sickened  her, 
and  though  she  was  weak  for  want  of  food  she 
had  not  strength  to  munch  the  great  piece  of  rye 
bread.  Her  head  swam  a  little  and  strange  tunes 
seemed  to  sound  all  about  her.  Her  mother's  voice, 
almost  in  her  ear,  sang  her  to  sleep  with  the  Old 
Hundred  Doxology,  and  for  a  moment  she  listened 
entranced,  but  as  the  phantom  voice  reached  the 
last  line  she  opened  her  eyes. 

"No,  no!"  she  screamed.  "No,  no!  I  won't  sing 
to  a  bird!  I  won't!  I'll  go  to  Sarah's  first!" 

A  stillness  that  frightened  her  followed.  Some- 
117 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

thing  pattered  beside  her,  and  she  looked  appre 
hensively  at  the  sky  through  a  rift  in  the  branches. 

"Don't  say  it's  rain!"  she  whispered,  nervously. 
"I'm  fearful  scairt  o'  thunder-storms!" 

The  sky  was  rapidly  clouding  over,  and  a  growl 
of  thunder  answered  her.  She  started  up,  but  fell 
helplessly  back. 

"O  Lord,  I  can't  move!  I  can't  move  a  step! 
I'm  too  heavy!"  she  cried  in  terror.  The  storm 
came  on  fast;  the  branches  shook  under  a  sud 
den  wind,  and  the  birds  grew  still.  She  was  too 
weak  to  realise  fully  her  situation,  but  what  con 
sciousness  she  owned  was  swallowed  up  in  terror.  A 
sudden  flash,  and  she  shrank  together  with  a  moan. 

"I'm  out  o'  my  head — I'm  not  really  here — I'm 
in  the  house — I  wouldn't  be  here  f'r  anything!" 
she  whispered.  A  heavy  clap,  and  she  screamed 
with  fear.  The  time  when  she  left  the  house  was 
far  away  and  misty  in  her  mind.  She  could  not 
remember  coming.  The  drops  struck  her  in  quick 
succession  and  the  muttering  grew  more  frequent, 
the  flashes  brighter.  Sick  with  fright,  she  cowered 
under  the  tree.  Her  childhood  unfolded  before  her, 
118 


- 

OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

her  girlhood;  her  poor  pinched  life  assumed  a 
glory  and  fulness  it  had  never  had.  So  warm,  so 
sheltered,  so  contented  it  seemed  to  her. 

A  great  harsh  clap  shook  the  little  wood  and  a 
vivid  glare  wrapped  her  about.  With  a  wail  she 
fell  back  against  the  tree-trunk.  Her  mind  was 
clear  again,  she  recalled  everything.  She  had  been 
led  out  here  to  die.  She  was  summoned  forth  to 
meet  the  judgment  of  God.  Heretic,  infidel,  blas 
phemer  that  she  was,  she  was  to  go  before  Him 
that  day ! 

Her  clothes  were  soaked  with  rain,  she  shivered 
with  cold,  she  was  too  weak  to  take  a  step,  but 
she  staggered  to  her  knees  and  folded  her  hands. 
The  tree  swayed  above  her,  the  wood  was  dark 
as  night,  the  rain  to  her  weak  nerves  was  deafen 
ing;  the  powers  of  darkness  raged  about  her.  She 
tried  to  pray  for  forgiveness,  for  peace  at  the  last, 
but  in  her  mind,  all  too  clear,  was  the  remembrance 
of  her  life  for  two  weeks  past.  She  set  her  teeth  to 
keep  them  from  chattering  so,  and  shivering  at 
each  clap  and  gasping  at  each  flash,  she  prayed: 

"O  Lord,  if  you  are  sendin'  this  storm  to  pun- 
119 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

ish  me,  I  can't  help  it.  I've  believed  in  you  all  my 
life,  and  I'm  sixty-two  and  I'm  going  to  die  in 
a  thunder-storm.  If  it'll  save  me  to  believe  in  the 
Holy  Ghost,  then  I'll  have  to  be  damned  eternally 
as  the  Widder  Sheldon  says  you'll  do,  for  I  can't, 
I  can't,  I  can't!  I'  been  a  believer  all  my  life,  and 
I'  only  been  this  way  two  weeks,  and  if  that  counts 
against  all  the  rest,  I'll  just  haf  to  go  to  hell, 
that's  all.  Feelin'  as  I  do,  you  can't  expect  me  to 
change  for  a  thunder-storm,  Lord,  scairt  as  I  be. 
It  don't  make  no  difference  that  I'm  scairt,  I  feel 
just  the  same.  I'  been  a  sinful  woman,  an'  I  pray 
to  be  forgiven,  but  I  can't  change,  Lord,  I  can't, 
an'  you  wouldn't  respect  me  if  I  was  ter.  Amen." 

A  glare  that  seemed  to  brighten  the  wood  for 
minutes  and  a  terrific  burst  of  thunder  answered 
her.  With  a  little  gasp  she  fell  backward  and  lay 
unconscious.  The  storm  raged  about  her,  but  she 
knew  nothing  of  it.  A  little  withered  old  woman, 
she  lay  in  a  heap  in  the  lap  of  all  the  elements, 
and  they  beat  upon  her  like  a  leaf. 

If  it  were  hours  or  minutes  she  did  not  know, 
but  she  opened  her  eyes  with  pain  upon  a  quiet 
120 


OF     HARRIET    BLAKE 

world.  The  storm  had  passed,  the  leaves  were 
dripping,  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  brighten 
the  blue,  the  birds  were  twittering  again.  She  got 
up  heavily,  but  with  a  certain  fitful  strength.  She 
turned  around  and  dragged  herself  further  into 
the  wood.  Then,  in  dread  of  the  thicker  foliage, 
she  struck  off  uncertainly  to  the  right.  To  her 
the  vengeance  of  God  was  only  delayed ;  there  was 
only  a  momentary  escape,  but  it  was  precious. 
She  was  confused,  terrified,  beaten.  She  had  no 
notion  in  what  direction  the  house  lay.  She  felt 
her  legs  tottering  and  reached  painfully  down  to 
pick  up  a  large,  gnarled,  broken  bough.  The 
effort  all  but  stretched  her  beside  it.  But  she  leaned 
on  it,  and  turned  her  shaking  head  from  one  side 
to  another.  All  was  thick,  wet,  glistening,  confus 
ing.  Only  the  twitter  of  the  birds  and  the  drip, 
drip  of  the  wet  leaves  broke  the  deadly  stillness. 
A  nameless  horror  caught  her.  She  felt  alone  in 
the  world. 

"O  Lord,  O  dear  Lord,  show  me  the  way  home !" 
she  prayed.  "Let  me  die  at  home,  Lord;  don't  let 
me  die  out  here — a  poor  old  woman  like  me !  Sixty- 
121 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

two,  Lord,  an*  a  believer  all  my  life!  Send  me 
home !" 

There  was  a  little  rustling  noise  in  the  tree  near 
the  tiny  clearing  just  before  her;  a  low,  soft 
heavenly  sound. 

"I  know  I'm  goin'  to  die,  Lord,  only  let  me  die 
at  home!  Don't  do  it  here!  I'm  scairt,  an'  I'm 
weak,  an'  I'm  too  old  to  die  in  the  woods!  Jus' 
send  me  home,  Lord ;  show  me  where  the  house  is !" 

The  great  sun  suddenly  sent  a  long,  bright  ray 
down  across  the  open  space,  and  as  she  looked  at  it, 
there  hovered,  full  in  the  brightness,  a  gleaming 
silver  dove.  With  wings  outspread,  motionless,  too 
bright  to  look  at  with  steady  eyes,  it  hovered  there. 
It  never  fluttered  its  wings;  it  made  no  sound;  in 
a  ray  from  heaven  it  held  its  quiet  position 
serenely  and  glistened  from  every  tiniest  feather. 

The  old  woman's  knees  tottered  beneath  her. 
She  held  with  both  hands  to  the  gnarled  staff,  and 
shuddered  as  she  gazed. 

"The  Holy  Ghost!  The  Holy  Ghost!"  she 
panted.  The  bird's  eyes  met  hers,  and  she  could 
not  take  her  own  away.  To  her  blurred,  smarting 
122 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

vision  it  seemed  that  an  aureole  of  glory  outlined 
its  head.  She  had  no  thoughts;  only  a  confused 
sensation  of  immediate  and  inescapable  doom. 
Death,  death  here,  with  this  grave  and  moveless 
vision  was  her  part.  She  closed  her  eyes  and 
waited.  A  second,  and  she  opened  them,  to  see  the 
vision  changed;  the  bird  had  turned  around,  and 
was  slowly  guiding  down  the  little  clearing  before 
her.  Just  above  her  head  it  flew,  with  steady  pace, 
and  with  it  went  all  the  brightness  of  the  sun. 

Her  lips  moved.  She  took  a  step  forward,  and 
the  bird  advanced.  "Glory  be  to  God!"  she  whis 
pered,  "It'll  show  me  the  way !" 

She  never  took  her  aching  eyes  for  one  second 
from  the  wonderful  white  thing.  She  scorned  to 
watch  the  ground.  With  a  magnificent  faith  she 
walked,  her  head  lifted,  her  heart  too  full 
to  know  if  she  stumbled.  In  the  clear  places,  al 
ways  where  there  were  no  branches,  the  white  guide 
flew  and  Harriet  walked  after  with  her  staff.  A 
few  moments  took  them  out  of  the  wood,  but  she 
never  looked  for  the  house.  In  the  full  glare  of 
day,  against  the  blue,  the  bird  looked  only  snowier^ 
123 


THE     BACKSLIDING 

and  to  her  dazzled,  burning  eyes  the  aureole  grew 
only  brighter  and  bigger.  She  could  not  see  its 
wings  move;  it  hovered  steadily  and  floated  se 
renely  upon  the  clear  air,  and  the  old  woman  saw 
it,  and  it  only. 

She  did  not  see  the  anxious  crowd  on  the  porch, 
she  did  not  hear  their  exclamations,  she  did  not 
know  that  her  lips  were  moving,  that  her  voice, 
low,  husky,  but  distinguishable,  repeated  over  and 
over,  almost  mechanically:  "Forgive  me,  Lord! 
forgive  me,  Lord!  O  Lord,  forgive  me!" 

She  only  followed,  followed  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul  and  strength,  up  the  little  hill,  up  the 
path,  up  to  the  porch,  a  strange,  shaking  pilgrim, 
leaning  heavily  on  her  staff,  guided  by  the  white 
pigeon. 

On  the  steps  they  received  her,  and  as  she  sank 
on  the  lowest,  they  caught  her,  falling.  Her  almost 
sightless  eyes  were  yet  uplifted,  and  while  to  their 
view  the  dove  dropped  down  among  its  mates, 
a  patch  among  the  white,  to  her  it  was  mingled 
with  the  summer  blue,  and  vanished  in  the  sky 
whence  it  came. 


OF     HARRIET     BLAKE 

Her  body  was  utterly  exhausted,  but  her  spirit 
could  not  yet  lose  its  consciousness.  On  the  wave  of 
her  exaltation  she  rose  higher  and  higher.  She 
looked  at  them  with  a  look  they  had  never  seen 

in  any  human  being. 

(, 
"I'm  saved!  I'm  saved!"  she  cried. 

They  watched  her,  silent,  terrified,  awed  beyond 
words  at  this  redemption  they  could  only  feel  but 
could  not  understand.  But  as  they  stared,  her  eyes 
glazed,  her  head  fell  back  against  the  matron's 
arm. 

"Pray !  pray !"  she  whispered.  The  pastor  looked 
at  her  and  steadied  himself.  Wonder  and  a  sense 
of  strength  flowed  in  on  him  suddenly.  But  there 
was  scant  time  for  prayer.  Though  the  light  in  her 
face  had  not  yet  died  away,  her  breath  was  scarcely 
moving.  He  came  near  her  and  repeated  gently 
the  hymn  she  had  in  the  time  of  her  trouble  dis 
owned,  but  which  she  had  always  loved: 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Praise  Him  all  creatures  here  below, 

Praise  Him  above  ye  heavenly  host " 

125 


HARRIET     BLAKE 

Her  eyes  opened  and  looked  wide  into  the  blue; 
what  she  saw  there  they  did  not  know,  but  she 
smiled  faintly. 

<c  Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost  !  " 

"Oh,  yes!  Oh,  yes!"  the  matron  guessed  that 
she  murmured;  and  with  the  cooing  and  clucking 
of  pigeons  sounding  through  the  summer  air,  she 
died. 

A  white,  arrow-swift  creature  whirred  through 
the  stillness,  up,  up,  and  out  in  a  great  proud 
curve ;  their  eyes  were  too  idim  to  know  if  it  turned 
again  to  the  earth. 


126 


A    BAYARD    OF    BROADWAY 


A    BAYARD     OF    BROADWAY 

A  HE  younger  man  —  he  was  only  a  boy  — 
grinned  impishly  at  the  elder,  bringing  out  the 
two  dimples  in  his  flushed,  girlish  cheeks. 

"That's  all  right  enough,  Dill,"  he  drawled;  he 
always  drawled  when  he  had  been  drinking.  When 
he  was  sober  the  familiar  Huntington  staccato 
was  very  marked  in  him. 

"That's  all  right,  Dilly,  my  boy,  and  a  grand 
truth,  as  old  Jim  used  to  tell  us  at  chapel,  but 
maybe  little  Robert  doesn't  see  your  game?  Oh, 
yes,  he  sees  it,  fast  enough.  Sis  hands  it  out  to 
you,  and  you  recite  it  to  Robbie,  and  Robbie  re 
forms,  and  you  get  Sis!  How's  that  for  a  young 
fellow  who  flunks  his  math?  Not  bad,  eh?" 

Dillon  flushed  and  set  his  teeth,  mastering  an 
almost  irresistible  longing  to  slap  those  red  cheeks 
in  vicious  alternation.  To  think  that  this  chatter 
ing  young  idiot  stood  between  him  and  his  heart's 
desire ! 

Bob  drawled  on:  "Anyhow,  Dill,  I  think  it's 
129 


A    BAYARD     OF    BROADWAY 

right  queer,  you  know.  Why  don't  she  marry  you? 
She  can't  love  you  very  much,  if  it  depends  on 
me.  You're  a  man  o'  the  world,  you  know,  man  o' 
world  " — he  grew  absent-minded  and  stared  at  the 
wall.  Dillon  snapped  his  fingers  nervously,  and  the 
speaker  began  again  with  a  start: 

"That's  what  I  say — a  man  o'  world.  Tell  her 
it's  all  bosh  worryin'  over  me,  tell  her  that,  Dill, 
tell  her  I  say  so.  No  use  her  tryin'  to  be  my  mother. 
Now  is  there,  Dill,  as  a  man,  is  there?  If  she  got 
married  and  had  some  children  of  her  own " 

"Bob,"  the  older  man  burst  out,  "for  heaven's 
sake,  shut  up,  will  you,  and  listen  to  me!  I'm 
going  to  tell  you  the  truth.  You've  got  the  whole 
thing  in  your  hands — God  knows  why,  but  you 
have — and  I'm  going  to  lay  it  before  you  once 
for  all.  Then  do  as  you  please :  make  us  all  happy, 
or  go  to  the  devil  your  own  way — and  I'll  go 
mine,"  he  added,  lower  and  quicker. 

Bob  sat  up,  blinked  rapidly,  and  smoothed  his 
hair  down  tight  over  his  ears — sure  sign  that  he 
was  nearly  himself. 

"Go  ahead,"  he  said  shortly,  "I'll  come  in." 
130 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

Dillon  bit  his  lip  a  moment;  he  would  rather 
have  taken  a  whipping  than  say  what  he  had  to 
say.  The  clock  ticked  loud  in  the  pause,  and  Bob, 
every  moment  clearer-eyed,  heavy  sleep  a  thing  of 
the  past,  stared  at  him  disconcertingly. 

"What  I'm  going  to  say  to  you,"  Dillon  began, 
"isn't  very  often  said  by  one  man  to  another,  I 
imagine.  Few  men  are  placed  in  just  my  position. 
I've  known  you  all  so  well,  I've  seen  so  much  of 
you  all  my  life "  he  paused. 

"I  needn't  say  how  much  I  thought  of  your 
mother.  When  your  father  was — when  he  broke 
down  so  often  at  the  last,  of  course  I  saw  a  great 
deal  of  her,  and  she  trusted  me  a  lot — she  had  to, 
once  she  began.  When  she  died,  and  you  weren't 
there,  because  you " 

"Don't!  please  don't,  Dill!"  the  boy's  lips  con 
tracted;  his  slim  body  twisted  with  a  helpless  re 
morse. 

"Well,  then,  when  she  died  she  asked  nre  to  look 

out  for  you,  because  she  knew  how  I  loved  her  and 

— and  Helena.  She  knew  you  had  it  in  you,  and 

she  didn't  blame  you — they  never  do,  I  suppose, 

131 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

mothers — but  she  asked  me  if  I'd  try  to  look  out 
for  you.  She  knew  I  wasn't  perfect  myself.  That's 
— that's  why  she  thought  I  wouldn't  do  for 
Helena.  Helena  was  always  so  wonderful,  so  high 
above " 

Again  he  stopped,  and  the  boy's  voice  broke  in : 

"Helena's  made  of  snow  and  ice-water,"  he  said 
moodily,  "she's  too  good  for  this  earth.  She  doesn't 
know " 

"She  knows  what  her  brother  should  be,  and  she 
knows  what  her  husband  must  be,"  Dillon  inter 
rupted  sternly.  "No  sister  could  have  been  more 
of  an  angel  to  you,  Bob. 

"Now  I'll  go  on.  It's  going  to  be  necessary  just 
here  for  me  to  tell  you  that  I  love  your  sister. 
You  don't  know  anything  about  that,  of  course. 
You  don't  for  a  second  of  your  life  realise  what 
it  is  to  love  a  woman  as  I've  loved  her  for — for 
five  years,  we'll  say.  I  put  it  five  because,  though 
I  loved  her  long  before,  things  happened  in  be 
tween,  and  I  don't  count  it  till  five  years  ago. 
Heaven  knows  I'm  not  worth  her  shoe-laces.  Once 
or  twice — before  the  five  years — I've  realised  that 
132 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

a  little  too  much,  and  then — the  things  happened. 
But  since  then  I've  honestly  tried  to  keep  to  the 
mark  your  mother  set  me.  She  said  to  me  once, 
'If  you  would  only  keep  as  good  as  you  are  at 
your  best,  Lawrence,  you'd  be  good  enough  for 
Helena,'  and — perhaps  because  that  wasn't  so  very 
good,  after  all — I've  really  been  keeping  there, 
after  a  fashion." 

Bob  stared  at  him  in  unaffected  amazement. 
This  clubman,  this  elegant,  this  social  arbiter 
was  standing  before  him  with  tears  in  his  level 
grey  eyes.  It  dawned  upon  his  reckless  young  soul 
that  the  soul  of  another  man  was  slowly  and  pain 
fully  stripping  itself  before  him. 

"We'll  let  that  part  of  it  go,"  Dillon  went  on 
hurriedly,  "you  couldn't  see.  I — I  think  I  could 
make  her  happy,  Bob.  I  know  her  better  than  she 
thinks.  She  almost  said  she'd  have  me,  and  then 
you  went  on  that  spree.  You  nearly  broke  her 
heart — I  needn't  go  over  it.  Only  she  made  a  vow, 
then — it  was  when  she  went  into  that  convent- 
place  in  Holy  Week,  and  she's  never  been  the 
same  since — and  it  was  about  you." 
133 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

"About  me?  What  d'you  mean?" 

"She  told  me  she  never  could  marry  till  she  was 
certain  whether  you  were  just  obstinate  and  wild, 
or — or  like  your  father ;  and  that  in  that  case " 

"What,  in  that  case?"  Bob  muttered  through 
his  teeth. 

"She  was  going  to  devote  her  life  to  taking  care 
of  you." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"There's  no  use  in  going  over  all  the  argu 
ments  now,  Bob — you  know  what  the  doctor  said. 
Three  months  without  a  drop,  and  then  he'd  war 
rant  you.  Every  day  that  goes  by  makes  it  harder 
for  you.  And  here's  your  Uncle  Owen  promising 
that  the  first  month  you  go  without  a  spree  he'll 
send  you  for  a  three  months'  cruise  on  the  yacht 
with  Stebbins — you  know  what  a  chance  that 
is." 

Bob  looked  fairly  up  for  the  first  time. 

"Stebbins!  Would  Stebbins  go?  I  don't  believe 
you !"  he  cried  eagerly. 

"He  told  me  he  would,"  said  Dillon. 

"Why  on  earth  should  he?" 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

"He's  a  friend  of  mine,"  the  other  answered 
simply. 

Bob  twisted  his  lips  together  a  moment,  while 
the  muscles  around  his  mouth  worked.  Suddenly 
he  gave  way  and  broke  into  sobbing  speech. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  Dill — I'm  not  worth  it — 
truly,  I'm  not!  I've  been  a  beast — and  the  college 
and  all  that — you  all  despise  me — but  so  do  I !" 

He  gripped  the  chair,  turning  his  handsome, 
tear-stained  face  up  to  his  friend's.  How  the 
straight,  thin  nose,  the  black-lashed  blue  eyes,  the 
white  forehead  reflected  Helena!  Dillon  could  have 
kissed  him  for  the  likeness. 

"Will  you,  Bob?  Will  you?  We'll  all  stand  by 
you!" 

"I  will,  Dillon,  I  will,  so  help  me— Bob!"  he 
smiled  through  wet  lashes.  "You  hang  on,  and  I 
will!  But  look  out  for  that  rector — he's  running 
a  close  second,  and  Aunt  Sarah's  backing  him  for 
all  she's  worth!"  He  was  smiling  wisely  now;  the 
strain  was  lifted,  and  he  was  almost  himself  again. 
Dillon  scowled. 

"He  takes  her  slumming,  you  know,  and,  say, 
135 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

you  ought  to  hear  him  give  it  to  Aunt  Sarah 
about  knowing  the  condition  the  poor  devils  are 
in  before  you  deal  out  the  tracts,  you  know.  He 
wants  the  good  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  come  and 
see — that  way,  you  know." 

"He's  right  enough  there,"  Dillon  said  con 
strainedly,  "and  I  suppose  he's  better  for  her  than 
I'd  be — no,  by  George,  he's  not!  Bob,  I  tell  you, 
I  know  her  better  than  he  does — I  tell  you  I've 
waited  five  years — Oh,  Lord,  I  can't  talk  any  more 
about  it!" 

They  went  out  arm  in  arm,  the  boy  warm  and 
friendly,  proud  of  his  confidence  and  full  of  high 
resolve,  Dillon  impassive  outwardly,  but  conscious 
of  great  stakes.  To  say,  in  four  short  weeks,  to 
those  wide,  blue  eyes,  a  little  scornful,  perhaps, 
but  with  so  sweet,  so  pure  a  scorn !  "The  strain  is 
over:  he  is  safe;  can  you  not  trust  me  now?9'  His 
heart  leaped  and  grew  large  at  the  thought. 

It  was  so  like  Helena,  this  service,  half-sacred 
in  her  mother's  trust,  half -shy  in  maidenly  delay 
ing.  "She  is  afraid  of  me!"  he  thought   exultingly 
— indeed,  she  admitted  as  much. 
136 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

"You  and  your  set — one  knows  you,  and  yet 
one  doesn't,"  she  said  to  him.  "You  seem  so  still, 
so  satisfied,  so  sure  about  life — there  seems  to  be 
so  much  you  don't  tell!  Do  you  see  what  I  mean? 
It  frightens  me.  There  is  so  much  we  don't  think 
the  same  about,  Lawrence — so  much  of  you  I  don't 
know !  I  wanted,  when  I  married,  to  come  into  a — 
a  peace.  I  wanted  it  to  be — don't  laugh — like  my 
Confirmation:  do  you  think  it  would,  if  I  married 
you?  Do  you,  Lawrence?" 

He  turned  his  head  away.  A  vision  of  her,  those 
ten  short  years  ago,  in  white  procession  down  the 
aisle  of  Easter  lilies,  rapt  and  aloof,  flashed  be 
fore  him.  For  one  sweet  second  he  saw  her  in  fancy, 
again  in  white,  but  trembling  now,  and  near 
him 

"Oh,  dearest  child,"  he  begged,  "I  don't  know 
about  the  peace — how  can  I?  The  things  are  so 
different!  But  we  could  be  happy — I  know  we 
could !  Is  peace  all  you  want,  sweetheart,  all  ?" 

Caught  by  his  eyes,  her  own  wavered  and 
dropped;  a  flood  of  red  rose  to  her  hair. 

"Don't,  Lawrence,  you  frighten  me!  When  you 
137 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

look  like  that — Oh,  wait  a  month,  only  this  month, 
Lawrence,  till  Bob  has  gone  and  we're  sure!" 

"You  want  that  more  than  anything  else,  don't 
you?  You'd  give  up  anything " 

Her  eyes  grew  soft,  then  stern,  and  looked 
clearly  into  his. 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  she  said  instantly, 
"so  that  mamma  could  see  he  was — safe.  I  am  all 
Bob  has.  Oh,  if  he  can  only " 

"He  shall,"  Dillon  assured  her  stoutly,  "he 
shall,  this  time !" 

And  indeed  it  seemed  that  he  would.  He 
seemed  awakened  to  the  strongest  effort  they  had 
known  him  to  make.  His  uncle's  offer,  grimly  set 
for  one  month  from  its  date,  or  never,  took  on  for 
him  a  superstitious  colour  of  finality.  He  was  con 
vinced  that  it  was  his  last  chance. 

"If  I'm  downed  this  time,  Dill,  it's  all  up,"  he 
would  say,  wearily,  as  they  paced  the  endless  city 
blocks  together,  arm  in  arm,  under  the  night.  "If 
I  can  keep  up  till  the  yacht — how  long  is  it,  a 
week? — then,  something  tells  me  I'm  all  right.  I 
swear  it's  so.  I  never  felt  that  before.  But  if  I 
138 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

don't" — he  paused  ominously.  "There's  always 
one  way  out,"  he  added. 

"You  will  break  Helena's  heart,  then.'* 

"Heart?  I  don't  think  she  has  one.  If  she  had, 
you'd  have  had  her  long  ago.  Oh,  no,  I  sha'n't. 
She'll  go  into  that  beastly  retreat  for  a  while,  and 
then  she'll  marry  that  crazy  rector-man  and  go 
about  saving  souls.  You'll  see." 

The  week  was  nearly  up.  The  yacht  was  ready 
in  the  harbour.  The  boy,  though,  showed  the 
strain,  and  Dillon,  fearful  of  too  much  dogging 
him,  and  warned  by  his  furtive  eyes  and  nar 
rowed  lips,  called  in  Stebbins  to  the  rescue. 

"I  can't  have  him  hate  me,  Steb,"  he  explained. 
"We're  both  of  us  worn  pretty  thin.  If  you  could 
give  up  to-day  and  to-night " 

They  shook  hands. 

"It's  every  minute,  practically,  you  know, 
Steb,"  he  added  doubtfully,  "it's  a  good  deal." 

"Oh,  get  on!"  the  other  broke  in,  with  a  good- 
natured  shoulder  clap. 

As  he  swung  the  glass  door  of  the  club  behind 
him,  Dillon  ran  down  a  messenger-boy,  bulging 
139 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

with  yellow  envelopes.  The  boy  glanced  at  him 
questioningly. 

"Mist'  Wardwell,  Adams,  Stebbins,  'r  Waite?" 
he  inquired,  holding  out  four  telegrams  as  he 
slipped  in. 

Dillon  shook  his  head,  and  walked  down  the 
steps. 

One  more  night  and  she  would  be  all  to  win,  no 
promise  between,  no  scruple  that  a  lover  might  not 
smother.  Shame  on  him  if  he  could  not  woo  more 
persuasively  than  a  mystical  evangelist!  In  the 
evening  he  would  see  her;  the  precious  little  note 
lay  warm  over  his  heart. 

He  dined  alone,  he  could  not  have  said  where, 
and  an  idle  impulse  for  the  lights  and  bustle  of 
the  great  thoroughfare  sent  him  strolling  down 
Broadway.  It  was  too  early  for  the  crowd,  and  he 
found  himself  guessing  vaguely  as  to  the  char 
acteristics  of  the  couples  that  met  and  passed  him. 
That  tall,  slender  lad,  for  instance,  with  such  a 
hint  of  Bob  —  poor,  troublesome  Bob !  —  in  his 
loose,  telltale  swagger,  what  had  led  him  to  the 
dark-eyed  creature  that  tapped  her  high  heels  be- 
140 


A    BAYARD     OF    BROADWAY 

side  him?  As  she  came  under  the  light,  one  saw 
better;  her  flashing  smile,  her  careless  carriage  of 
the  head,  her  broad  sweep  of  shoulder,  had  a  cer 
tain  charm — great  heavens,  it  was  Bob  steadying 
himself  on  her  arm!  A  moment,  and  the  familiar 
drawl  reached  his  ear: 

"An'  so  you  always  want  to  choose  mos'  prom'- 
nent  place,  every  time,  an'  you're  safe's  a  church. 
No  chance  to  meet  y'r  dear  frien's M 

Dillon  strode  to  his  side,  raising  his  hat  to  the 
surprised  woman. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Bob,  but  had  you  for 
gotten  your  engagement  this  evening?"  he  said 
smoothly.  Bob  stopped,  glared  a  moment  uncer 
tainly,  but  the  scrupulous  courtesy  of  Dillon's 
bearing  had  its  intended  effect. 

"What — what  engagement?"  he  inquired  sus 
piciously.  "Friend  o'  mine,"  he  added  to  his  com 
panion. 

"Haven't  you  met  Stebbins?  He-— he  was  ex 
pecting  you."  Lawrence  felt  his  heart  sink.  Where 
was  Stebbins?  Oh,  fool,  to  have  lost  hold  at  the 
eleventh  hour! 

141 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

"Stebbins?  Stebbins?"  Bob  murmured  to  him 
self.  "Ah,  yes;  the  beastly  boat  got  afire,  and  he 
had  to  go  down ;  I'm  going  too,  after  a  while — too 
early  yet — take  a  little  walk,  first,  with  Miss — 

Miss "  He  paused,  and  stared  thoughtfully  at 

the  woman.  "I  don't  seem  to  just  recall  your 
name,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Would  you  mind  tell 
ing  me,  so  that  I  can  introduce  you?  Bad  form, 
his  poking  in,  though,  terribly  bad  form." 

Dillon  noted  with  anger  that  Bob  was  at  his 
most  argumentative,  obstinate  stage ;  at  this  point, 
if  he  felt  the  necessity,  he  could  speak  most  cor 
rectly  and  clearly,  by  giving  some  thought  to  the 
matter,  and  it  was  almost  impossible  to  alter  his 
determinations. 

"My  name  is  Williams,"  said  the  woman.  Dillon 
bowed. 

"What  have  you  had,  Bob?"  he  inquired,  mov 
ing  along  with  them. 

"Oh,  only  a  cocktail — here  and  there — Miss — 
Miss  Willis  likes  'em  as  well  as  anything.  About 
time  we  had  another?"  he  suggested,  eyeing  Law 
rence  combatively. 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

The  older  man  stopped  dead.  A  weary  despair 
of  the  whole  business  seized  him.  It  was  all  up, 
then.  Even  if  he  went  about  with  the  boy,  which 
Bob  would  hardly  allow,  his  condition  next  morn 
ing  would  be  all  too  apparent.  And  then  Uncle 
Owen  would  wash  his  hands  of  it  all.  Aunt  Sarah 
would  never  consent  to  any  institutional  cure. 
Helena  would  never  marry  while  Bob  needed 
her — thank  God,  she  had  never  suspected  the 
woman ! 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  thoughts,  Bob  complained 
loudly : 

"I  say  it's  a  blamed  shame,  the  first  time  I  go 
out  with  a  girl  to  enjoy  the  evening,  to  have  you 
pokin'  in,  Dill !  Always  stuck  with  the  fellows  be 
fore;  and  now  I  get  a  girl,  like  anybody  else,  and 
here  you  come!  Why  don't  you  get  out?  Two's 
company." 

Dillon  caught  his  arm. 

"Bob,"  he  said    beseechingly,  "you  don't  know 

what  you're  doing.    Surely   you  know  what  this 

means!  Don't  you  remember  that  the  Eider-duck 

sails  to-morrow  at  nine?  Don't  you  realise  that  by 

143 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

this  night's  folly  you're  losing  your  last  chance? 
Your  last  chance,  Bob !  Think  how  you  called  it 
that  yourself!  If  this  lady  realised  all  this  meant 
to  you,  she'd  excuse  you,  I'm  sure.  Don't  be  a  fool, 
Bob!  Let  me  put  you  in  a  cab  and  go  right  to 
Stebbins — old  Steb'll  put  you  up,  and  nobody  will 
ever  know!  You  can  sleep  it  off — it's  only  eight 
o'clock." 

To  his  unexpected  delight  Bob  yawned  sleepily. 
His  eyes  were  dull,  his  mouth  drooped. 

"Sleep  it  off,"  he  murmured.  "I  wish  I  was  in 
bed  this  minute.  Lord,  I'm  tired.  And  I  know  why, 
too.  I  told  her  bromo-seltzer  would  settle  me.  Al 
ways  puts  me  to  sleep — no  good  at  all.  Fool  to 
drink  it.  Told  her  so.  .  .  ." 

Dillon's  spirits  rose. 

"That's  so,"  he  assented,  "it  always  acts  that 
way  with  you,  doesn't  it?  Especially  with  cock 
tails.  Now,  you  be  a  wise  man,  Bob,"  he  urged, 
"and  get  into  this  cab " 

"And  where  do  I  come  in?"  said  the  woman 
sharply.  "I  call  this  a  little  queer,  if  you  don't 
mind  my  saying  so." 

144- 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

Bob  roused  himself  for  a  moment. 

"Just  so,"  he  declared  heavily,  "just  so. 
Where  does  Miss  Willard  come  in  ?  You  must  think 
I'm  a  terrible  cad,  Dill,  to  ask  a  lady  out  for 
the  evening,  and  leave  her  like  that!  Not  a  bit 
of  it!  You  go  on!  Sorry,  but  can't  leave  the 
lady." 

Lawrence  moved  toward  his  pocket  involun 
tarily.  The  woman  struck  his  arm  lightly. 

"That'll  do,"  she  said  sullenly.  "I  don't  want 
your  money.  You  think  I'm  a  kind  of  a  bundle,  do 
you?  Pick  me  up  and  drop  me.  Well,  that's  where 
you  make  a  mistake.  Why  don't  you  let  your 
friend  alone?" 

"Helen — she'll  know.  You  say  nobody  will," 
Bob  broke  in  suddenly.  "She  won't  lie,  if  you  will. 
She'll  tell  Uncle  Owen.  What's  the  use?" 

"I  won't  tell  her,"  Lawrence  returned  quickly, 
"and  nobody  else  knows." 

"Well,  then,"  Bob  faced  him  cunningly,  walk 
ing  backwards  through  the  comparatively  empty 
cross-street  they  had  turned  down,  "I  think  maybe 
I'll  do  it.  I  want  to  go  with  Stebbins,  all  right. 
145 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

But"  —  his  obstinacy  rose  again,  suddenly  —  "I 
swear  I  won't  go  back  on  a  lady !  Nobody  offer  a 
lady  money  in  my  presence !  'Twon't  do,  Dill !  Get 
out!" 

"Bob,"  Lawrence  urged,  despairingly,  "if  I 
take  Miss  Williams  wherever  she  wants  to  go,  and 
she  will  accept  my  escort" — he  half  turned  to  her, 
but  his  doubt  was  not  evident,  if  he  had  it — "will 
you  go  to  Stebbins?" 

Bob  stopped  short,  nearly  falling  backwards. 

"Great  head!"  he  cried.  "Never  thought  old 
Dilly  had  it  in  him!  I'll — I'll  consider  the  prop — 
the  prop — the  plan."  He  yawned  widely.  "I  cer 
tainly  am  sleepy,"  he  observed,  sinking  on  a  con 
venient  step. 

Dillon  shook  him  and  dragged  him  up. 

"Come,"  he  said,  shortly,  "will  you?" 

Bob  pointed  a  theatrical  finger  at  them. 

"Do  you,  Dilly,  being  of  sound  mind,  body,  or 
estate,  give  me  your  solemn  word  of  honour  as  a 
gentleman  to  escort  Miss  Willins  wherever  she 
wants  to  go?  Do  you?" 

"And  drop  me  when  your  back's  turned,"  inter- 
146 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

posed  the  woman,  laconically,  but  not  angrily. 
Her  interest  was  awakened,  perhaps  her  sense  of 
humour,  too,  and  she  awaited  developments  philo 
sophically. 

"Never  a  bit,"  Bob  returned.  "You  don't  know 
old  Dill.  If  he  says  it,  he'll  do  it,  if  there  were 
what-do-you-call-'ems  in  the  way." 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honour,"  said  Law 
rence,  steadily. 

"And  you'll  never  tell  Helen?  Because  if  you 
do,  she  tells  Uncle  Owen,  and  it's  all  up  with 
Robbie." 

"I  will  never  tell  her." 

"On  your  word  of  honour?" 

"On  my  word  of  honour." 

"Then  call  your  cab  and  tuck  me  in  my  little 
bed.  My  eyes  will  crack  if  I  prop  'em  up  any 
longer." 

"Miss — Miss — I  can't  recall  your  name,  but  you 
don't  object?  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  object  in  the  least,"  said  Miss 
Williams  satirically,  with  a  wondering  glance  at 
the  tall,  immaculate  gentleman  at  her  side,  his  face 
147 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

stern  in  the  electric-light,  his  evening  clothes  in 
marked  contrast  to  Bob's  negligee.  "In  fact,  I 
rather " 

Dillon  whistled  a  cab  and  gave  the  driver  whis 
pered  directions.  A  bill  fluttered  as  he  passed  it 
up.  The  man  nodded,  respectful. 

"And  now  I  am  at  your  service,"  said  Dillon, 
standing  tall  and  straight  before  her.  "Where  did 
you  wish  to  go?" 

Not  for  one  moment  did  it  occur  to  him  to  evade 
his  duty,  and  not  for  one  moment  did  she  intend 
that  he  should.  Where  they  went,  through  all  that 
nightmare  evening,  he  could  never  afterward  tell. 
From  dance-hall  to  concert-hall  they  wandered, 
sat  awhile,  and  departed.  Nor  were  they  silent  on 
the  way.  What  they  spoke  of  he  could  not  have 
told  for  his  life,  but  they  talked,  fairly  steadily 
at  first,  less  and  less  as  the  night  wore  on,  and  the 
woman  grew  dreamily  content  with  the  lights,  the 
warmth,  and  the  liquor.  Dillon  was  imperturbably 
polite,  gravely  attentive  to  her  wishes,  curiously 
conscious  of  one  life  with  her  and  another  distinct 
existence  at  Helena's  home.  Now  he  was  waiting, 
148 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

waiting,  waiting  in  front  of  the  close-shaded  win 
dows  to  see  if  she  had  left  the  house  or  if  she  still 
sat  in  surprised  idleness  expecting  him.  Now  he 
was  at  Stebbins's  house  watching  Bob  as  he  lay 
asleep  there. 

He  remembered  afterward  thinking  that  the 
woman  must  have  been  a  Southerner,  for,  as  she 
drank,  her  tongue  turned  to  those  softer  tones, 
slurred  vowels  and  quaint  idioms. 

"It  seems  like  you're  having  a  good  time,  after 
all,"  she  said  once.  He  bowed  gravely. 

By  eleven  they  were  well  down-town,  he  was  not 
quite  certain  where.  They  stayed  but  little  time  in 
any  one  place.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  been  on 
this  endless  journey  for  years.  Now  and  then  he 
saw  a  man  he  knew.  In  one  place  he  wakened, 
with  a  shock  of  remembrance,  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  there  before:  there,  and  at  the  place  op 
posite,  too.  How  little  it  had  changed!  It  was  be 
fore  the  five  years. 

They  were  at  a  corner  table,  he  with  his  back 
to  the  room,  the  woman  facing  it.  On  a  platform 
opposite  a  young  fellow  sat  before  a  piano,  strik- 
149 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

ing  desultory  chords.  Presently  he  began  to  sing, 
in  a  sweet,  piercing  tenor: 


"  Oh,  promise  me  that  some  day  you  and  I " 

There  was  a  moved  silence  through  the  room; 
his  voice  had  a  quality  that  reached  for  the 
heart: 


"  Those  Jlrst  sweet  violets  of  early  spring " 

Dillon  glanced  at  the  woman;  her  large,  dark 
eyes  were  brimmed  with  tears.  A  great  pity  surged 
over  him:  he  would  have  given  anything  he  owned 
to  be  able  to  offer  her  her  life  to  live  again.  Ten 
derly,  as  over  a  dusty,  broken  bird,  he  laid  his 
hand  over  her  clasped  ones  on  the  table.  They  sat 
in  awed  silence;  the  song  swelled  on.  He  did  not 
hear  the  door  open  behind  him,  nor  turn  as  a  new 
party  of  four  entered  quietly.  Directly  behind  his 
chair  a  man's  voice  spoke  softly. 

"This  is  a  fair  sample.  Not  very  bad,  you  think  ? 
But  every  man  in  this  room  is  a  confirmed  opium- 
eater,  and  the  women " 

The  two  at  the  table  hardly  heard. 
150 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

"Oh,  the  women!"  said  a  woman's  voice  in  a 
rough  whisper.  "I  cannot  bear  to  think " 

"Oh,  it  isn't  the  women,  Aunty!  You  sha'n't 
say  that — they  are  heart-breaking.  It's  the  men, 
the  men  I  bl " 

Swiftly,  hopelessly,  as  the  steel  turns  to  the 
magnet,  Dillon  turned  and  faced  Helena  Hunt- 
ington. 

As  her  eyes  met  his  all  the  rose  colour  in  her 
soft  cheeks  seemed  to  sweep  into  his  and  burn 
dully  there,  leaving  her  whiter  than  bone.  For  one 
fiery  second  her  eyes  rested  on  the  table,  the  half- 
emptied  glasses,  the  clasped  hands  of  the  pair,  the 
tear-stained  cheeks  of  the  handsome  girl.  For  one 
breath  two  groups  of  stone  confronted  each  other. 
Then,  with  no  sign  of  recognition,  she  swept  from 
her  seat,  her  hand  on  the  rector's  arm,  her  aunt 
and  an  older  man  behind  them.  Her  aunt  looked 
at  Dillon  as  if  he  were  the  chair  he  sat  in. 

The  door  swung  behind  them. 

"  No  life  so  perfect  as  a  life  with  thee, 

Oh,  promise  me  ;  oh,  promise  me  !  " 

151 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

the  tenor  shrilled.  Lawrence  burst  into  jangling 
laughter. 

"The  evening  is  over,"  he  said,  still  red  and 
shaking.  "Allow  me  to  escort  you  home." 

He  never  remembered  the  time  between  this 
speech  and  the  moment  when  she  asked  him  to  step 
in  for  a  while,  and  he  laughed  in  her  face.  Then 
there  was  another  time,  and  he  was  at  his  rooms 
at  the  club.  But  that  was  early  morning.  He  was 
lame  and  his  shoes  hurt  his  feet — he  must  have 
walked  a  great  deal. 

At  eight  o'clock  Stebbins  dashed  into  the 
room. 

"Well,  of  all  the  fellows!  What's  the  matter 
•with  you?" 

He  was  fresh  and  rosy;  a  faint,  wholesome 
aroma  of  cigars  and  eau-de-cologne  swept  in  with 
him. 

"Why  the  deuce  aren't  you  down  to  see  us  off? 
They're  all  there.  Got  my  telegram  yesterday? 
Fire  didn't  amount  to  much,  but  the  fools  hadn't 
half  the  stuff  I  ordered.  I  was  down  there  all  the 
afternoon  seeing  to  it.  I  sent  Bob  right  around 
152 


A   BAYARD   OF   BROADWAY 

to  you.  You  must  have  walked  him  well.  Stevens 
said  he  came  in  at  eight  and  tumbled  straight  to 
bed.  He's  fresh  as  paint  this  morning.  Asked  him 
where  he'd  been,  and  I  swear  he  didn't  know.  Says 
you  told  him  to  go  to  bed,  and  he  went.  Drove 
home,  he  says.  Actually  doesn't  remember  a  living 
thing  but  that,  since  dinner.  When  you  said  he'd 
be  that  way  sometimes  I  didn't  really  believe  you, 
but  I  do  now.  Where  were  you?" 

Dillon  faced  him. 

"For  God's  sake,  Lawrence,  what  is  it?  Are  you 
sick?  She  said  you  wouldn't  be  there " 

"She?  Who?" 

"The  old  one — the  aunt.  Bob  was  wondering 
about  it,  and  she  says  directly,  'No,  he  won't  be 
here  this  morning,'  so  I  slipped  off.  Bob  said  if 
you  were  tired,  never  mind. 

"I  say,  Lawrence,  that's  an  awfully  attractive 
boy.  You  can't  help  liking  him.  He  called  me 
aside,  and,  'Look  here,'  says  he,  'Uncle  Owen  says 
there's  to  be  no  wine  packed  for  you.  Now  I  can't 
have  that,  Stebbins,  it  won't  do.  It's  awfully  bully 
of  you  to  come,  and  you  must  have  everything 
153 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

you  want.'  I  told  him  that  would  be  all  right  and 
what  a  fine  vacation  it  was  going  to  be  for 
me " 

Lawrence  turned  the  water  into  the  tub  and 
began  to  pull  at  his  shoes.  Never  had  he  felt  so 
grateful  for  Stebbins's  constant  chatter. 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  come  down,"  he  heard  him 
self  say.  "I  have  a  beastly  headache.  I  didn't  get 
much  sleep " 

"Well,  for  heaven's  sake  get  some,  if  it  makes 
you  look  like  that !  Where'd  you  go,  anyway,  after 
you  put  Bob  to  bed?" 

Lawrence  pulled  off  his  coat. 

"Parson's  down  there,  you  know.  He  and  uncle 
seem  to  be  hand  in  glove.  He's  pretty  well  fixed 
with  most  of  the  family,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"How  much  time  have  you  got?"  said  Law 
rence's  voice. 

"George,  not  much!  Cab's  waiting  outside.  I 
won't  mention  how  you  look,  then — just  tell  'em 
good-bye." 

"That's  all.  Just  tell  'em  good-bye." 

Lawrence  was  in  the  bath-room  as  Stebbins 
154 


A     BAYARD     OF     BROADWAY 

hurried  out.  He  sat  down  on  the  porcelain  rim  of 
the  tub,  his  face  drawn  and  grey  above  his  white 
shirt. 

"It  seems  to  be  pretty  well  settled  up,"  he  said 
quietly.  "I  hope  his  mother's  pleased!" 


155 


A    LITTLE     BROTHER     OF     THE 
BOOKS 


A    LITTLE     BROTHER     OF     THE 
BOOKS 

JL  HE  new  librarian  entered  upon  her  duties 
bright  and  early  Monday  morning.  She  closed 
with  a  quick  snap  the  little  wicket-gate  that  sepa 
rated  the  books  from  the  outer  vestibule,  briskly 
arranged  her  paste-tube,  her  dated  stamp,  and  her 
box  of  slips,  and  summoned  her  young  assistant 
sharply.  The  assistant  was  reading  Molly  Bawn 
and  eating  caramels,  and  she  shut  book  and  bag 
quickly,  wiping  her  mouth  as  she  hurried  to  her 
superior. 

"Now,  Miss  Mather,  I  expect  to  get  fifty  books 
properly  labelled  and  shelved  before  noon,"  said 
the  new  librarian,  "and  there  must  be  no  time 
wasted.  If  anyone  wants  me,  I  shall  be  in  Section 
K,"  and  she  turned  to  go. 

Section  K  was  only  a  few  feet  from  the  reg 
istering-table,  but  it  pleased  the  new  librarian  to 
assume  the  existence  of  long  corridors  of  volumes, 
159 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

with  dumb-waiters  and  gongs  and  bustling,  basket- 
laden  attendants.  So  much  majesty  did  she  throw 
into  her  sentence,  indeed,  that  the  young  assistant, 
who  had  always,  under  the  old  regime,  privately 
referred  to  Section  K  as  "those  old  religious 
books,"  and  advised  the  few  persons  interested  in 
them  to  "go  right  in  behind  and  see  if  the  book 
you  refer  to  is  there,"  was  staggered  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  involuntarily  glanced  behind  her,  to  see 
if  there  had  been  a  recent  addition  to  the  building. 

The  new  librarian  strode  down  between  the 
cases,  glancing  quickly  from  side  to  side  to  de 
tect  mislaid  or  hastily  shoved-in  volumes.  Sud 
denly  she  stopped. 

"What  are  you  doing  in  here,  little  boy?"  she 
said  abruptly. 

In  the  angle  of  the  case  marked  "Books  of 
Travel,  Adventure,  etc.,"  seated  upon  a  pile  of 
encyclopedias,  with  his  head  leaning  against 
Twenty  Thousand  Leagues  Under  the  Sea,  was  a 
small  boy.  He  was  dark  of  eyes  and  hair,  palely 
sallow,  ten  or  eleven  years  old,  to  appearance.  By 
his  side  leaned  a  crutch,  and  a  clumsy  wooden 
160 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

boot,  built  up  several  inches  from  the  sole,  ex 
plained  the  need  of  this.  A  heavy,  much-worn 
book  was  spread  across  his  little  knees. 

He  looked  up  vaguely,  hardly  seeming  to  see 
the  librarian. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?  How  did  you  get 
in?"  she  repeated. 

"I'm  reading,"  he  replied,  not  offering  to  rise, 
"I  just  came  in." 

"But  this  isn't  the  place  to  read.  You  must  go 
in  the  reading-room,"  she  admonished  him. 

"I  always  read  here.  I'd  rather,"  he  said,  pleas 
antly  enough,  dropping  his  eyes  to  his  book,  as 
if  the  matter  were  closed. 

Now  the  new  librarian  thoroughly  disapproved 
of  the  ancient  custom  that  penned  the  books  away 
from  all  handling,  and  fully  intended  to  throw 
them  open  to  the  public  in  a  few  months'  time, 
when  she  should  have  them  properly  systematised ; 
but  she  resented  this  anticipation  of  what  she  in 
tended  for  a  much-appreciated  future  privilege. 

"But  why  should  you  read  in  here,  when  none 
of  the  other  children  can?"  she  demanded. 
161 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

The  boy  raised  his  eyes  again. 

"Mr.  Littlejohn  lets  me — I  always  do,"  he  re 
peated. 

The  new  librarian  pressed  her  lips  together 
with  an  air  of  highly  creditable  restraint. 

"Mr.  Littlejohn  allowed  a  great  many  irregu 
larities  which  have  been  stopped,"  she  announced, 
"and  as  there  is  no  reason  why  you  should  do 
what  the  other  children  cannot,  you  will  have  to 
go.  So  hurry  up,  for  I'm  very  busy  this  morning." 

She  did  not  speak  unkindly,  but  there  was  an 
unmistakable  decision  in  her  tone,  and  the  boy  got 
up  awkwardly,  tucked  his  crutch  under  his  arm, 
and  laying  the  big  book  down  with  care,  went  out 
in  silence,  his  heavy  boot  echoing  unevenly  on  the 
hardwood  floor.  The  librarian  went  on  to  Sec 
tion  K. 

Presently  the  young  assistant,  who  had  been  ac 
customed  to  keep  her  crocheted  lace-work  on  the 
Philosophical  shelf ,  directly  behind  the  Critique  of 
Pure  Reason,  recollected  that  it  would  in  all  hu 
man  probability  be  discovered,  on  the  removal  of 
that  epoch-making  treatise,  and  came  hastily  down 
162 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

to  get  it.  Having  concealed  it  safely  in  her  pocket, 
she  paused. 

"That  was  Jimmy  Reese  you  sent  out — did  you 
know  it?"  she  asked. 

"No,  what  of  it?" 

"Why,  nothing,  only  he's  always  read  in  here 
ever  since  I  came.  Mr.  Littlejohn  was  very  fond 
of  him.  He  helped  pick  out  some  of  the  books. 
He " 

"Picked  out  the  books  —  that  child?  Great 
heavens !" 

"Well,  he's  read  a  good  deal,  Jimmy  has,"  the 
assistant  contended.  "It's  all  he  does.  He  can't  play 
like  the  other  children,  he's  so  lame.  He  seems  real 
old,  anyhow.  And  he's  always  been  here.  He  helps 
giving  out  the  books,  and  helps  the  children  pick 
out.  He  was  very  convenient  when  Mr.  Littlejohn 
didn't  like  to  be  waked  up." 

"Great  heavens!"  the  librarian  cried  again. 

"I  think  you'll  find  he'll  be  missed,  you  being 
so  new,"  the  assistant  persevered. 

"I  think  I  can  manage  to  carry  on  the  library, 
Miss  Mather,"  replied  her  superior  coldly,  "with- 
163 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

out  any  assistance  from  the  children  of  the  town. 
Will  you  begin  on  that  Fiction,  please?" 

She  walked  on  again,  but  paused  to  put  away 
the  brown  book,  which  lay  where  the  intruder  had 
left  it,  a  mute  witness  to  the  untidiness  of  the  laity. 
Opening  it  briskly,  she  glanced  at  the  title : 

The 
AGE   OF  FABLE 

or 
BEAUTIES  OF  MYTHOLOGY 

by 

THOMAS  BULFINCH 

Below  was  a  verse  of  poetry  in  very  fine  print; 
she  read  it  mechanically. 

0,  ye  delicious  fables  !  where  the  wave 

And  woods  were  peopled,  and  the  air,  with  things 

So  lovely  !  why,  ah  !  why  has  science  grave 
Scattered  afar  your  sweet  imaginings  ? 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 

It  flashed  into  her  mind  that  an  absolutely 
shameless  subscriber  had  retained  Miss  Proctor's 
collected  poems  for  three  weeks  now,  and  she  made 
a  hasty  note  of  the  fact  on  a  small  pad  that  hung 
from  her  belt.  Then  she  set  the  Age  of  Fable 
164 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

in  its  place  and  went  on  about  her  work,  the  inci 
dent  dismissed. 

The  next  afternoon  as  she  was  sorting  out  from 
the  department  labelled,  "Poetry,  Miscellaneous 
Matter,  etc.,"  such  books  as  Mr.  Littlejohn  had 
found  himself  unable  or  unwilling  to  classify  fur 
ther,  shaking  down  much  dust  on  the  further  side 
of  the  shelves  in  the  process,  she  was  startled  by  a 
faint  sneeze.  Her  assistant  was  compiling  a  list  of 
fines  at  the  desk,  and  this  sneeze  came  from  her 
very  elbow,  it  seemed,  so  she  hastily  dismounted 
from  her  little  ladder  and  peered  around  the  rack. 
There  sat  the  little  boy  of  yesterday,  the  same 
brown  book  spread  across  his  knees.  She  looked 
severe. 

"Is  this  Jimmy  Reese?"  she  inquired   stiffly. 

"Yes'm,"  he  answered,  with  a  polite  smile.  He 
had  an  air  of  absolute  unconsciousness  of  any 
offence. 

"Well,  don't  you  remember  what  I  told  you 
yesterday,  Jimmy?  This  is  not  the  reading-room. 
Why  don't  you  go  there?" 

"I  like  it  better  here." 

165 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

The  librarian  sighed  despairingly. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  know  who  I  am,"  she  ex 
plained,  not  crossly,  but  with  that  air  of  detach 
ment  and  finality  that  many  people  assume  in 
talking  with  children.  "I  am  Miss  Watkins,  the 
new  librarian,  and  when  I  give  an  order  here  it 
must  be  obeyed.  When  I  tell  any  one  to  do  any 
thing,  I  expect  them  to  do  it,  because — because 
they  must,"  she  concluded  lamely,  a  little  discon 
certed  by  the  placid  stare  of  the  brown  eyes.  "You 
see,  if  all  the  little  boys  came  in  here,  there  would 
be  no  room  for  us  to  work." 

"But  they  don't — nobody  comes  but  me,"  he  re 
minded  her. 

"Suppose,"  she  demanded,  "that  someone  should 
call  for  that  book  you  are  reading.  I  shouldn't 
know  where  to  look  for  it." 

"Nobody  ever  wants  it  but  me,"  he  assured  her 
again. 

"I  have  no  time  to  argue,"  she  said  irritably, 
"you  must  do  as  I  tell  you.  Put  the  book  up  and 
run  away." 

Without  another  word  he  laid  the  book  on  the 
166 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

broad  base-shelf,  picked  up  his  crutch,  and  went 
out.  As  she  watched  his  retreating  figure,  a  little 
uneasy  feeling  troubled  her  usual  calm.  He  seemed 
so  small,  so  harmless  a  person. 

A  little  later  it  occurred  to  her  to  see  how  he  had 
entered  the  library,  and  stepping  through  the  two 
smaller  rooms  at  the  back,  choked  and  dusty  with 
neglected  piles  of  old  magazines,  she  noticed  a 
door  ajar.  Picking  her  way  through  the  chaos, 
she  pulled  the  knob,  and  saw  that  it  gave  on  a 
tiny  back  porch.  On  the  steps  sat  the  janitor,  as 
incompetent,  from  the  librarian's  point  of  view, 
as  his  late  employer. 

"I  thought  you  were  sweeping  off  the  walks, 
Thomas,"  she  suggested,  coughing  as  the  wreaths 
from  his  pipe  reached  her. 

"Well,  yes,  Miss  Watkins,  so  I  was.  I  just 
stopped  a  minute  to  rest,  you  see,"  he  explained, 
eyeing  her  distrustfully.  Since  her  advent  life  had 
changed  greatly  for  the  janitor. 

"I  see  Thomas,  does  that  little  lame  boy  come 
in  this  way?" 

167 


A    LITTLE     BROTHER 

"Jimmy?  Yes,  ma'am.  'Most  always  he  does.  In 
fact,  that's  why  I  keep  the  door  unlocked." 

"Well,  after  this  I  prefer  that  you  should  keep 
it  locked.  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  have 
a  private  entrance  to  the  library  that  I  can  see; 
and  anyway  it's  not  safe.  Some  one  might " 

"Oh,  Lord,  Miss  Watkins,  don't  you  worry. 
Nobody  ever  came  in  here  yet,  and  I've  been  here 
eight  years.  Jimmy's  all  right.  He's  careful  and 
still's  a  mouse,  and  he  won't  do  a  mite  of  harm. 
He  comes  in  regular  after  school's  out,  and  it's 
just  like  a  home  to  him,  you  may  say.  He's  all 
right." 

Miss  Watkins  frowned. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  he  is  a  very  estimable 
little  boyy"  she  said;  "but  you  will  please  see  that 
no  one  enters  the  library  by  this  door.  I  see  no 
reason  for  favouritism.  You  understand  me,  I 
hope." 

And  she  returned  to  her  work.  The  assistant, 

weary  of  her  unprecedented  labour,  had  laid  aside 

the  list  of  fines,  and  was  openly  crocheting.  No 

sound  of  broom  or  lawn-mower  proclaimed  Thomas 

168 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

worthy  of  his  hire,  and  Miss  Watkins,  vexed  be 
yond  the  necessity  of  the  case,  labelled  Fiction 
angrily,  wondering  why  such  a  town  as  this  needed 
a  library,  anyway. 

Two  little  old  ladies,  plump  and  deprecatory, 
entered  in  a  swish  of  fresh,  cambric  morning- 
dresses.  One  of  them  fumbled  in  her  black-silk 
bag  for  a  book,  and  leaning  on  the  little  gate, 
coughed  lightly  to  attract  the  assistant's  atten 
tion. 

"Yes,  indeed,  Miss  Mather,  a  lovely  day.  Sister 
and  I  enjoyed  this  very  much.  I  don't  know  about 
what  we'll  take,  exactly ;  it's  so  hard  to  tell.  I  al 
ways  look  and  look,  and  the  more  I  look  the  more 
anxious  I  get.  It  always  seems  as  if  everything 
was  going  to  be  too  long,  or  else  we've  read  it. 
You  see  we  read  a  good  deal.  I  wonder — do  you 
know  where  the  little  boy  is?" 

Miss  Mather  smiled  triumphantly.  "You'll  have 
to  ask  Miss  Watkins,"  she  said. 

"The  new  librarian,  my  dear?  Oh,  I  hardly  like 
to  disturb  her.  They  say  she's  very  strict.  My 
cousin  told  me  she  charged  her  nine  cents  for  a 
169 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

book  that  was  out  too  long.  You  ask  her,  my 
dear!" 

"Miss  Watkins,"  said  the  assistant  meekly, 
"there  is  a  lady  here  would  like  to  see  Jimmy.  Do 
you  know  where  he  is?" 

"I  do  not,"  the  librarian  returned  briefly.  "Any 
thing  I  can  do " 

"Oh,  no,  not  at  all !"  cried  the  flushed  old  lady, 
"not  for  the  world!  Don't  disturb  yourself,  please 
— Miss — Miss — I'll  just  wait  till  he  gets  in.  He 
picked  this  out  for  me.  You  see,  he  knows  pretty 
well  what  we  want.  I  always  like  something  with 
a  little  travel  in  it,  and  sister  won't  hear  of  a 
book  unless  it  ends  well.  And  it  spoils  it  so  to  look 
ahead.  So  the  little  fellow  looks  at  the  end,  and 
sees  if  it's  all  right  for  sister,  and  then  he  assures 
me  as  to  the  travel — I  like  European  travel  best 
— and  then  we  know  it's  all  right.  I'll  just  wait 
for  him." 

"I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  will  be 
here,"  Miss  Watkins  said  crossly. 

"Oh,  yes,  he'll  be  here,"  the  old  lady  returned 
comfortably.  "He'll  be  here  soon.  We  can  wait." 

*  170 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

The  librarian  pressed  her  lips  together  and  re 
tired  into  her  work.  The  minutes  passed.  Presently 
the  outer  door  opened  softly,  and  the  irregular  tap 
of  a  crutch  was  heard.  Jimmy's  head  peered 
around  the  partition  into  the  ante-room.  The  old 
ladies  uttered  a  chirp  of  delight,  and  slipped  out 
into  the  hall  for  a  brief,  whispered  consultation, 
returning  with  a  modest  request  for  Griffith 
Gaunt,  by  Charles  Reade."  The  elder  of  the  two 
shut  it  carefully  into  her  bag,  remaking  sociably, 
"I  wanted  to  read  the  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  by 
the  same  author,  I'd  heard  there  was  so  much 
travel  in  it,  but  he  said  sister  never  could  bear 
the  ending." 

Going  into  the  reading-room  later,  on  some 
errand,  the  librarian  was  surprised  to  find  the 
magazines  neatly  laid  out  in  piles,  the  chairs 
straightened,  the  shades  pulled  level,  and  a  fresh 
bunch  of  lilacs  in  the  jar  under  the  window.  She 
guessed  who  had  done  it,  but  Jimmy  was  not  to 
be  seen.  Once,  during  the  next  afternoon,  she 
thought  she  saw  a  small,  grey  jacket  disappear 
ing  into  the  waste-room,  but  much  to  her  own 
171 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

surprise,  forbore  to  make  certain  of  It.  During  the 
next  few  days,  when  her  time  was  entirely  taken 
up  with  the  catalogue  in  the  front  of  the  library, 
and  the  assistant  transacted  all  business  among  the 
shelves,  she  was  perfectly  convinced  that  some 
where  between  sections  A  and  K  a  little  boy  with 
a  brown  book  was  concealed,  but  found  herself 
too  busy  to  rout  him  out. 

Even  when  a  red-faced,  liveried  coachman  pre 
sented  her  with  a  note,  directed  in  a  sprawling, 
childish  hand  to  "Mr.  Jimmy  Reese,  Esq.,"  she 
only  coughed  and  said  severely,  "There  is  no  such 
official  in  the  library." 

"It's  just  the  little  boy,  ma'am,  that's  meant," 
the  man  explained  deferentially.  "Master  Clarence 
is  back  for  the  summer — Mrs.  Clarence  Vander- 
hoof,  ma'am — and  he  always  sends  a  note  to  the 
little  fellow.  There  was  some  book  he  mentioned 
to  him  last  year  as  likely  that  he  would  enjoy,  and 
Master  Clarence  wants  it,  if  it's  in.  I  was  to  give 
him  the  note." 

"I  will  send  a  list  of  our  juveniles  to  Mrs. 
Vanderhoof,"  said  the  librarian,  in  her  most  busi- 
172 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

ness-like  manner,  "and  I  will  give  you,  for  Master 
Clarence,  the  new  Henty  book.  He  will  probably 
like  that." 

"I  beg  pardon,  ma'am,"  persisted  the  coachman, 
"but  Master  Clarence  says  that  there  was  a  book 
that  the  little  boy  particularly  recommended  to 
him,  and  I  was  to  be  very  special  about  it.  He 
goes  a  good  deal  by  the  little  fellow's  judgment. 
I'll  call  in  again  when  he's  here,  after  my  other 
errands." 

Miss  Watkins  sighed,  and  gave  way.  "Will  you 
see,  Miss  Mather,  if  Jimmy  Reese  is  in  the  li 
brary?"  she  inquired,  and  Miss  Mather,  smiling, 
obeyed  her. 

He  was  never  formally  enfranchised,  but  he 
took  up  his  place  in  the  department  of  Travel 
and  Adventure,  and  held  it  unchallenged.  All  the 
long,  spring  afternoons  he  sat  there,  throned  on 
the  books,  leaning  against  them,  banked  safely  in 
from  the  tumult  of  the  world  outside,  a  quiet  little 
shadow  among  the  shadowy  throngs  that  filled  the 
covers. 

Whatever  he  might  read,  for  he  turned  to  other 
173 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

books  as  one  travels,  for  the  joy  of  coming  home 
again,  the  old  brown  book  lay  open  on  his  knees, 
and  he  patted  the  pages  with  one  hand,  absently, 
as  his  eyes  travelled  over  the  print.  Sooner  or 
later  he  came  back  to  the  yellowed  leaves — per 
haps  to  the  story  of  Dryope. 

"Now  there  was  nothing  left  of  Dryope  but  her 
face.  Her  tears  still  flowed  and  fell  on  her  leaves, 
and  while  she  could,  she  spoke.  'I  am  not  guilty. 
I  deserve  not  this  fate.  I  have  injured  no  one. 
If  I  speak  falsely,  may  my  foliage  perish  with 
drought  and  my  trunk  be  cut  down  and  burned. 
Take  this  infant  and  give  it  to  a  nurse.  Let  it 
often  be  brought  and  nursed  under  my  branches, 
and  play  in  my  shade;  and  when  he  is  old  enough 
to  talk,  let  him  be  taught  to  call  me  mother,  and 
to  say  with  sadness,  "My  mother  lies  hid  under  this 
bark."  But  bid  him  be  careful  of  river-banks,  and 
beware  how  he  plucks  flowers,  remembering  that 
every  bush  he  sees  may  be  a  goddess  in  disguise. 
Farewell,  dear  husband  and  sister  and  father.  If 
you  retain  any  love  for  me,  let  not  the  axe  wound 
me  nor  the  flocks  bite  and  tear  my  branches.  Since 
174 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

/  cannot  stoop  to  you,  climb  up  hither  and  kiss 
me;  and  while  my  lips  continue  to  feel,  lift  up  my 
child,  that  I  may  kiss  him.  I  can  speak  no  more, 
for  already  the  bark  advances  up  my  neck,  and 
will  soon  shoot  over  me.  You  need  not  close  my 
eyes;  the  bark  w'dl  soon  close  them  without  your 
aid.1  Then  the  lips  ceased  to  move,  and  life  was 
extinct;  but  the  branches  retained,  for  some  time 
longer,  the  vital  heat." 

In  fancy  he  walked  by  that  fatal  stream.  He 
saw  the  plant  dripping  blood — the  flower  that  was 
the  poor  nymph  Lotis.  The  terrible,  beautiful  re 
venge,  the  swift  doom  of  those  wonderful  Greeks, 
that  delights  even  while  it  horrifies,  he  felt  to  the 
fullest  measure.  He  had  no  more  need  to  read  them 
than  a  priest  his  breviary,  for  he  knew  them  all, 
but  he  followed  the  type  in  very  delight  of  recog 
nition. 

Through  the  window  came  the  strong  scent  of 
the  purple  lilacs,  that  grew  all  over  the  little  New 
England  town.  Faint  cries  of  children  playing 
drifted  in  with  the  breeze.  The  organ  in  the  church 
nearby  crooned  and  droned  a  continual  fugue. 
175 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

Someone  was  always  practising  there.  The  deep, 
bass  notes  jarred  the  air,  even  the  little  building 
trembled  to  them  at  times.  And  since  it  had  been 
at  this  season  of  the  year,  when  he  had  first  found 
the  book,  the  lovely  broken  myths,  elusive  some 
times,  and  as  dim  to  his  understanding  as  the  mar 
ble  fragments  that  still  bewilder  the  enchanted 
artist,  he  always  connected  with  that  throb 
bing,  mournful  melody,  that  haunting  lilac 
odour.  Sometimes  the  organ  swelled  triumphantly 
and  cried  out  in  a  mighty  chorus  of  tone :  at  those 
times  Ulysses  shot  down  the  false  suitors,  or  Per 
seus,  hovering  over  the  shrieking  sea-beast,  rescued 
the  white  Andromeda.  Sometimes  a  minor  plaintive 
strain  troubled  him  vaguely,  and  then  he  listened 
to  poor  Venus,  bending  in  tears  above  the  slain 
Adonis. 

"  'Yet  theirs  shall  be  but  a  partial  triumph; 
memorials  of  my  grief  shall  endure,  and  the  spec 
tacle  of  your  death,  my  Adonis,  and  of  my  lamen- 
tation,  shall  be  annually  renewed.  Your  blood  shall 
be  turned  into  a  flower;  that  consolation  none  shall 
envy  me.'  Thus  speaking,  she  sprinkled  nectar  on 
176 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

the  blood;  and  as  they  mingled,  bubbles  rose  as  in 
a  pool,  on  which  rain-drops  fall,  and  in  an  hour's 
time  there  sprang  up  a  flower  of  bloody  hue,  like 
that  of  the  pomegranate.  But  it  is  short-lived." 

The  peculiar  odour  of  much  leather  on  pine 
shelves  was  confused,  too,  with  the  darling  book. 
He  had  never  read  it  elsewhere ;  he  had  not  money 
enough  for  a  library-ticket.  Old  Mr.  Littlejohn, 
quickly  recognising  the  invaluable  services  that 
this  little  acolyte  might  be  counted  upon  to  ren 
der,  had  readily  granted  him  the  freedom  of  the 
shelves,  and  smoked  his  pipe  in  peace  for  hours 
together,  thereafter,  in  the  back  room,  sure  of  his 
monitor  in  front. 

Miss  Watkins  needed  no  such  assistance,  but  she 
found  herself,  to  her  amazement,  not  wholly  un 
grateful  for  the  many  steps  saved  her  by  Jimmy's 
tactful  service  to  the  children.  At  first  she  would 
have  none  of  it,  and  groups  of  shy  boys  and  girls 
waited  awkwardly  and  in  vain  before  the  little 
gate,  hoping  for  a  glimpse  of  their  kindly  coun 
sellor.  She  thrust  lists  of  juveniles  into  their 
unwilling  hands,  led  them  cautiously  into  an  in- 
177 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

spection  of  Nature  Lessons  for  Little  Learners, 
displayed  tempting  rows  of  bound  St.  Nicholas — 
but  to  no  purpose. 

"Where's  Jimmy?"  they  demanded  stubbornly. 

"What  on  earth  do  they  want  of  him?"  she 
asked  of  her  assistant  one  day.  "That  stupid 
Meadows  child — is  she  going  to  ask  his  opinion 
of  the  Dotty  Dimple  Books?" 

"Not  at  all,"  Miss  Mather  replied  tranquilly. 
"But  he  always  gets  her  a  Mary  J.  Holmes  novel, 
and  I  stamp  it  and  let  it  go.  You  always  argue 
with  her  about  it,  and  ask  her  if  she  wouldn't  pre 
fer  something  else — which  she  never  would." 

Little  by  little  he  grew  to  wait  on  the  children 
as  a  matter  of  course.  He  was  even  allowed  to 
keep  the  novels  desired  by  the  Meadows  child 
in  the  juvenile  shelf,  where  he  insisted  they  be 
longed. 

"Only  the  girls  in  Number  Seven  want  'em," 
he  explained,  when  his  superior  complained  of 
his  audacity  in  removing  them  from  adult  fic 
tion. 

And  so  the  little  girl  who  had  reached  that 
178 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

period  of  little  girlhood  when  every  well-regulated 
young  person  is  compelled  by  some  inward  power 
to  ask  the  librarian,  tremblingly,  if  she  has  a  book 
in  the  libr'y  called  St.  Elmo,  was  spared  all  em 
barrassment,  for  Jimmy  handed  it  out  to  her  al 
most  before  she  asked. 

Not  that  he  lacked  the  discrimination  to  exer 
cise  a  proper  authority  on  occasion.  Miss  Watkins 
remembered  long  a  surprising  scene  which  she  wit 
nessed  from  the  top  of  a  ladder  in  the  Biography 
and  Letters  Section.  A  shambling,  unwholesome 
boy  had  asked  Miss  Mather  in  a  husky  voice  for 
the  works  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  as  she  blew  off 
the  dust  from  the  top  and  extended  two  fat  vol 
umes  toward  him,  a  rapid  tapping  heralded  the 
youngest  official. 

"Don't  you  give  'em  to  him,  don't  you!"  he 
cried,  warningly.  As  she  paused  instinctively  he 
shook  his  finger  with  a  quaint,  old-fashioned  gest 
ure  at  the  boy. 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed,  Sam  Wheeler,"  he 
said  reprovingly.  "You  shan't  take  those  books  a 
step.  Not  a  step.  If  you  think  you're  going  to 
179 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

scare  Susy  to  death  you're  mistaken.  If  you  want 
to  read  'em,  come  here  and  do  it.  But  you  aren't 
a-going  to  read  'em  to  her  nights,  again.  So  you 
go  right  off,  now!" 

Without  a  word  Sam  turned  and  left  the  li 
brary,  and  Miss  Watkins  from  her  ladder  remon 
strated  feebly. 

"Why,  Jimmy,  if  that  boy  has  a  ticket  you 
haven't  any  right " 

"Do  you  know  what  he  does  with  those  books, 
Miss  Watkins?"  replied  the  dauntless  squire  of 
dames.  "He  reads  'em  after  supper  to  his  little  sis 
ter  Susy.  That  one  where  the  house  all  falls  down 
and  the  one  where  the  lady's  teeth  come  out  and 
she  carries  'em  in  her  hand!  And  she  don't  dare 
take  her  feet  off  the  rungs,  she  sits  so  still.  And 
she  don't  go  to  sleep  hardly  ever.  Do  you  s'pose 
I'd  let  him  take  'em?" 

The  librarian  threshed  the  matter  over,  and 
finally  thought  to  stagger  him  by  the  suggestion 
that  it  would  be  difficult  for  him  to  ascertain  the 
precise  intention  of  everyone  drawing  out  books. 
"How  do  you  know,"  she  asked,  "that  other  peo- 
180 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

pie  may  not  be  frightening  each  other  with  various 
stories  ?" 

"There  aren't  many  fellows  as  mean  as  Sam 
Wheeler,"  he  replied  promptly,  "and  then  I  was 
sure  that  he  was  going  to.  I  happened  to 
know." 

She  turned  again  to  her  work  and  he  went  back 
to  his  corner,  the  brown  book  under  his  arm. 

The  syringa  was  out  now,  and  the  mournful, 
sweet  odour  blew  in  from  the  bushes  around  the 
church.  In  the  still  June  air  he  could  hear  the  bees 
buzzing  there.  He  turned  the  beloved  pages  idly. 
Should  it  be  poor  Psyche,  so  sweet  and  foolish,  or 
Danae,  the  lovely  mother,  hushing  her  baby  in  the 
sea-tossed  chest?  He  found  the  place  of  Proverbial 
Expressions  at  the  back  of  the  book,  and  read 
them  with  a  never-failing  interest.  Around  them  he 
wove  long  stories  to  please  himself. 

"Their  faces  were  not  all  alike,  nor  yet  unlike, 
but  such  as  those  of  sisters  ought  to  be." 

This  one  always  pleased  him — he  could  not 
have  said  why. 

"Here  lies  Photon,  the  driver  of  his  father's 
181 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

chariot,  which  if  he  failed  to  manage,  yet  he  fell 
in  a  great  undertaking." 

The  simple  grandeur  of  this  one  was  like  the 
trumpet  tone  of  the  organ.  He  thrilled  to  it  de 
lightedly. 

The  third  he  murmured  to  himself,  entranced 
by  the  very  sound  of  the  words : 

"He  falls,  unhappy,  by  a  wound  intended  for 
another;  looks  up  to  the  skies,  and  dying  remem 
bers  sweet  Argos." 

Ah,  why  would  Thomas  never  consent  to  the 
witchery  of  these  words: 

" and  dying  remembers  sweet  Argos." 

He  sighed  delightedly  and  dreamed  into  the 
dusk.  Almost  he  thought  he  had  known  that  man, 
almost  he  remembered  sweet  Argos. 

In  the  middle  of  June  the  Vanderhoof's  coach 
man  brought  bad  news :  Master  Clarence  was  quite 
ill.  No  one  knew  what  it  was  exactly,  but  if  there 
was  any  exceptionally  fine  book  that  Jimmy  could 
suggest,  he'd  be  glad  to  be  read  to  from  it. 

For  the  first  time  the  little  librarian  parted  from 
his  darling. 

182 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

"If  you'll  be  especially  careful  of  it,  William, 
and  I've  put  in  slips  of  paper  at  the  best  ones. 
And  as  soon  as  he  gets  better,  I'd  be  glad  if  he'd 
send  it  back — if  he's  through  with  it." 

The  days  seemed  long  without  it.  The  heat  was 
intense,  and  when  Miss  Mather  stayed  at  home  a 
day  or  two,  and  all  the  summer  people  came  in 
for  books,  he  had  a  great  deal  to  do.  Miss  Wat- 
kins  was  very  glad  of  his  help,  now. 

One  hot  Saturday  afternoon  he  did  not  return 
to  the  library,  but  began  a  resolute  journey  to  the 
Vanderhoof's  big  house  on  the  hill.  It  was  almost 
two  miles,  and  he  went  slowly;  now  and  then  he 
stopped  to  rest  on  the  stone  horse-blocks.  It  took 
him  an  hour  to  get  there,  and  at  the  door  he  had 
to  stop  to  wipe  his  forehead  and  get  his  breath. 

"I  came  to  ask  how  Clarence  was,"  he  said  to 
the  maid. 

"He's  better,  thank  you,  but  it's  dreadful  sick 
he's  been.  'Twas  scarlet  fever,  dear,"  she  answered, 
with  a  pitying  glance  at  the  crutch.  "Not  that 
you  need  be  worried,  for  the  half  of  the  house  is 
shut  off,  and  we've  not  been  near  it,"  she  added. 
183 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

"I'm  glad  he's  better,  and — and  is  he  through 
with  the  book  ?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"The  book?  What  book  is  it,  my  dear?  Sure  the 
nurse  does  be  reading  a  hundred  books  to  him." 

"A  brown  book:  Stories  of  Gods  and  Heroes. 
I — I'd  like  it,  if  he's  through  with  it.  I  stay  at 
the  libr'y,  and  I  sent  it  to  him — "  he  sank  on  the 
step,  exhausted. 

The  kind-hearted  girl  dragged  him  into  the 
hall.  "Come  out  with  me,  dear,  and  get  a  glass 
of  cold  milk/'  she  said.  "You've  walked  too  far." 

Seated  on  a  chair  in  the  kitchen,  his  eyes  closed, 
he  heard,  as  in  a  dream,  his  friend's  voice  raised 
in  dispute  with  some  distant  person. 

"And  I  say  he  shall  have  it,  then.  Walking  all 
this  way!  And  him  lame,  too!  Tell  Emma  to  put 
it  on  the  tray,  and  leave  it  in  the  hall.  The  child's 
well  enough  now,  anyway.  I'll  go  get  it  myself — 
I'm  not  afraid.  The  whole  of  us  had  the  fever, 
and  no  such  smelling  sheets  pinned  up,  and  no 
fuss  at  all,  at  all.  I'm  as  good  as  a  paid  nurse,  any 
day,  if  you  come  to  that.  A  book'll  hurt  no 
one." 

184 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

Later  he  found  himself  perched  beside  the  coach 
man,  who  was  going  to  meet  a  train,  the  beloved 
book  tight  in  his  arms.  He  fingered  it  lovingly; 
he  smelled  the  leaves  like  a  little  dog.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  took  it  to  his  home,  and  clasped 
it  in  his  arms  as  he  lay  in  bed. 

For  days  he  did  not  appear,  and  it  was  Thomas, 
the  janitor,  who  went  finally  to  look  him  up, 
troubled  by  the  children's  reports  of  his  illness. 
He  returned  grave-faced. 

"It's  the  fever,  Miss  Watkins,  and  they  say 
there's  little  chance  for  him,  the  poor  little  feller! 
He  was  worn  out  with  the  heat.  They  don't  know 
how  he  got  it.  He's  out  of  his  mind.  To  think  of 
Jimmy  like  that!" 

The  librarian's  heart  sank,  and  her  assistant  put 
her  head  on  her  arms  and  cried.  Thomas  sat  sadly 
on  his  little  porch,  his  unlighted  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
The  library  seemed  strangely  empty. 

The  little  Meadows  girl  brought  them  the  news 
the  next  morning. 

"Jimmy's  dead,"  she  said  abruptly.  "He  got  it 
from  a  book  up  at  the  Vanderhoofs.  His  aunt 
185 


A     LITTLE     BROTHER 

feels  awful  bad.  It  was  a  libr'y  book.  They  say  he 
held  it  all  the  time." 

The  librarian  put  away  the  book  in  her  hand, 
envying  the  younger  woman  her  facile  tears.  She 
was  not  imaginative,  but  she  realised  dimly  for  a 
moment  that  this  little  boy  had  known  more  of 
books,  had  got  more  from  them,  than  she,  with  all 
her  catalogues. 

They  sat  together,  she,  Miss  Mather,  and 
Thomas,  a  strange  trio,  at  the  simple  funeral  ser 
vice  in  the  church  nearby.  So  far  as  daily  living 
went,  they  were  as  near  to  him  as  the  aunt  who 
cared  for  him. 

Coming  back  to  the  library,  they  lingered 
awhile  in  the  reading-room,  trying  to  realise  that 
it  was  all  over,  and  that  that  little,  quick  tapping 
would  never  be  heard  again  among  the  books.  At 
last  Thomas  spoke: 

"It  don't  seem  right,"  he  said  thickly,  "it  don't 
seem  right  nor  fair.  Here  he  was,  doting  on  that 
book  so,  tugging  it  round,  just  living  on  it,  you 
might  say,  and  it  turned  on  him  and  killed  him. 
Gave  it  up,  and  a  sacrifice  it  was,  too — I  know — 
186 


OF     THE     BOOKS 

and  as  a  reward,  it  killed  him.  Went  back  to  get 
it,  brought  it  home,  took  it  to  bed — and  it  killed 
him.  It's  like  those  things  he'd  tell  me  out  of  it — 
they  all  died;  seemingly  without  any  reason,  the 
gods  would  go  back  on  'em,  and  they'd  die.  He's 
often  read  it  out  to  me." 

"It  will  be  lovely  to  have  that  Children's-room 
memorial,"  said  Miss  Mather,  softly,  "with  all  the 
books  and  pictures  and  the  little  chairs.  It  was 
beautiful  in  Mrs.  Vanderhoof,  I  think.  It  wasn't 
her  fault.  I  wish — I  wish  we'd  had  a  little  chair 
in  there  for  Jimmy." 

The  librarian  got  up  abruptly  and  moved 
around  among  the  magazines,  a  mist  before  her 
eyes.  Only  now  did  she  realise  how  she  had  grown 
to  love  him. 


187 


THE     MAID    OF    THE    MILL 


THE     MAID    OF    THE    MILL 
I 

1  HE  only  objection  I  have  to  ghost  stories," 
said  young  Sanford,  "is  from  a  literary  point  of 
view.  They're  so  badly  done,  you  know." 

"In  what  way?"  said  the  clerk  of  the  hotel,  set 
tling  back  in  his  office  chair,  and  smiling  at  young 
Sanford  and  the  circle  of  men  who  had  come  down 
for  their  keys  from  the  billiard-room. 

"Well,  in  this  way.  Fm  not  considering  the  lit 
tle  harmless  stories  where  the  heroes  are  only 
frightened,  or  even  those  where  their  heads  are 
grey  in  the  morning.  Fm  thinking  of  those  where 
they  never  live  to  tell  the  awful  tale,  you  know; 
the  ones  in  which  they  tell  their  friends  to  come 
if  they  call,  and  then  they  never  call;  the  ones  in 
which,  although  they  scream  and  scream,  nobody 
hears  them. 

"And  yet  the  old  trembling  man  who  points  them 
to  the  haunted  room  knows  perfectly  well  that  five 
men  have  entered  that  room  on  five  nineteenths  of 
191 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

October,  and  never  come  out  ab've.  Yet  he 
only  warns  them,  or  at  most  only  beseeches 
them  not  to  go  in.  He  has  no  police  force — not 
that  police  could  seriously  harm  the  ghosts,  but 
somehow  they  never  appear  to  the  police;  he  does 
not  arrange  with  the  victim's  friend  to  burst  in 
the  door  at  twelve-thirty,  anyhow,  whether  they 
are  summoned  or  not;  he  doesn't — but  then,  what 
do  any  of  them  do  that  they  might  be  expected  to  ? 
•And  all  this  forced  condition  of  things  so  that  the 
ghost  may  have  all  the  evening  to  work  quietly  in. 
Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  I  were  frightened  to 
the  extent  of  grey  hair  in  the  morning,  I  couldn't 
scream  loud  enough  to  be  heard  any  distance?" 

This  speech  drew  nods  of  approval  from  several 
of  the  men.  "I've  thought  of  that,  too,"  said  the 
clerk.  In  a  dark  corner  behind  the  stove  sat  a  man, 
hunched  over  his  knees,  silent,  and  apparently  un 
known  to  any  of  the  others.  At  this  point  he  looked 
up,  cleared  his  throat,  and  said  in  a  strange,  husky 
voice : 

"Do  you  really  suppose  that  that  is  anything 
else  than  nonsense?"  Young  Sanford  flushed. 
192 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

"Sir" — he  began.  The  other  continued  in  his 
rough,  thick  voice: 

"Do  you  suppose  they  don't  try  to  scream?  Do 
you  suppose  they  don't  think  they're  screaming?" 

A  little  silence  of  discomfort  fell  on  the  circle. 
There  was  something  disagreeably  suggestive  in 
the  question.  Suddenly  the  man  spoke  again. 

"I  had  a  friend,"  he  said,  "in  fact,  I  had  two 
friends.  One  was  young — about  your  age,"  nod 
ding  to  San  ford.  "The  other  was  older.  He  was  not 
so  clever  nor  so  attractive  nor  so  brilliant  nor  so 
jolly  as  the  younger,  but  he  had  a  characteristic — 
perhaps  his  only  one — for  he  was  a  very  ordinary 
man.  He  had  an  iron  will.  His  determination  was 
as  unbreakable  as  anything  human  could  be.  And 
he  was  devoted  to  his  friend,  who,  somehow,  loved 
him.  I  don't  know  why,  because  he  had  so  many 
other  admirers — but  he  stuck  to  his  friend — Joan. 
They  called  the  two  Darby  and  Joan.  Their  real 
names  were  not  unlike  those,  and  it  was  rather 
funny.  Darby  used  to  talk  as  you  were  talking, 
sir,"  he  nodded  again  to  Sanford,  "and  he  was 
sure,  cock  sure,  that  what  he  said  was  right.  He 
193 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

would  tell  what  things  were  possible  and  what 
were  not,  and  prove  what  he  said  very  nicely.  Joan 
wasn't  clever,  but  he  knew  that  it  does  no  good 
to  call  a  thing  impossible.  He  knew,  in  fact,  that 
nothing  is  more  possible  than  the  most  impossible 
things." 

The  man  coughed  and  cleared  his  throat  and 
waited  a  moment  as  if  to  see  whether  he  were  in 
truding.  No  one  spoke,  so  he  went  on. 

"One  day  Darby  rushed  into  Joan's  study  and 
told  him  of  a  haunted  mill  he'd  discovered.  It  was 
one  of  the  old  mills  where  the  farmers  used  to 
bring  their  sacks,  before  the  big  concerns  in  the 
West  swallowed  all  the  little  trades.  It  was  dusty 
and  cobwebbed  and  broken  down  and  unused  and 
haunted.  And  there  was  a  farmhouse  directly 
across  the  road  and  a  house  on  either  side  of  it 
not  a  hundred  feet  away. 

"  'Was  it  always  haunted?'  asked  Joan.  'No,' 
said  Darby,  'only  once  a  year.'  On  Christmas  eve 
every  year  for  nineteen  years  there  had  appeared, 
late  at  night,  a  little  light  in  one  of  the  windows ; 
and  that  side  of  the  house  had  an  odd  look,  some- 
194 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

how  it  seemed  to  look  fresher  and  newer,  and  at 
one  o'clock  or  so  a  horrible  piercing  shriek  would 
ring  out  from  the  mill,  and  then  a  kind  of  crash 
ing  fall,  and  then  all  was  still,  and  the  light  would 
disappear. 

"'Had  nobody  investigated?'  Oh,  yes.  The 
first  year  it  was  noticed  was  when  houses  were 
built  up  around  it.  It  used  to  stand  away  from 
everything  else,  and  the  miller  and  his  family  lived 
there.  Then,  long  after  they  were  dead,  people 
moved  out  there  and  heard  the  noises  and  saw  the 
light.  They  thought  of  tramps  and  escaped  crim 
inals  and  everything  one  suggests  till  it  had  oc 
curred  too  repeatedly  for  that,  and  then  a  young 
farmer  went  over  one  Christmas  eve,  not  telling 
any  one,  and  they  found  him  roaming  about  the 
mill,  a  hopeless  wreck  the  next  day;  he  had  gone 
quite  mad. 

"And  the  next  year  a  man  came  up  from 
the  city,  and  his  friends  were  in  the  next  room  to 
help  him  if  he  called,  and  he  didn't  call,  and  they 
were  afraid  to  startle  him  by  knocking,  so  they 
got  a  ladder  and  peeped  into  the  window  at  ten 
195 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

minutes  to  one,  and  he  lay  peacefully  on  the  bed 
with  his  eyes  closed  and  his  hands  stretched  loosely 
out,  and  they  thought  it  was  a  great  joke  that  he 
should  sleep  through  it,  so  they  went  home,  and 
in  the  morning  they  found  him  in  horrible  con 
vulsions,  and  he  never  recovered. 

"And  there  were  two  young  divinity  students 
that  went  once  together,  and  they  had  a  crowd 
along  with  instructions  to  break  in  the  door  at  one 
exactly.  And  at  the  stroke  of  one  the  crowd  beat  in 
the  great  door  and  burst  into  an  empty  room ! 
They  had  gone  up  a  flight  too  far,  somehow,  and 
as  they  stood  staring  at  each  other,  from  the  room 
beneath  them  came  a  dreadful  shriek  and  a  crash, 
and  when  they  rushed  down  they  found  the  boys 
in  a  dead  faint.  They  brought  them  to  and  got 
them  home,  and  they  muttered  nonsense  about  a 
dog  and  a  sash  and  would  say  no  more.  And  they ^ 
escaped  with  severe  nervous  prostration.  But  later 
they  lost  what  little  nerve  they  had  and  couldn't 
sleep  at  night,  and  joined  the  Catholic  Church,  be 
cause  they  said  that  there  were  things  they  found 
it  difficult  to  reconcile.  .  .  . 
196 


THE     MAID     OF    THE     MILL 

"  'And  what  was  the  story  of  it  all?'  asked  Joan. 
Oh,  the  story  was  disagreeable  enough.  The  mill 
er's  daughter  wanted  to  marry  a  poor  young  man, 
but  her  father  would  not  let  her.  And  she  refused 
to  accept  his  rich  nephew.  So  he  locked  her  in  her 
room  till  she  should  consent.  And  she  stayed  there  a 
week.  And  one  night  the  nephew  came  home  late 
and  saw  a  tiny  light  in  her  window,  and  presently 
he  saw  some  one  place  a  ladder  and  go  softly  up, 
and  the  miller's  daughter  leaned  out  and  helped 
him  in.  So  he  told  her  father,  who  came  into  her 
room  the  next  night  with  a  bloodhound,  and  bound 
her  to  the  bed  and  hushed  her  cries  with  her  sash, 
and  lit  the  little  light.  And  when  her  lover  had 
climbed  the  ladder — the  dog  was  there.  And  that 
was  Christmas  eve. 

"  'Do  the  people  suffer  this  without  complaint 
— these  deaths  and  convulsions  and  apostasies?' 
asked  Joan.  Well,  no.  But  if  they  destroyed  the 
mill  a  liquor  saloon  would  go  up  immediately.  The 
proprietor  was  simply  waiting.  And  they  didn't 
want  that.  So  they  kept  it  quiet.  And  nobody  need 
go  there.  Nobody  had  been  alarmed  or  hurt  except 
197 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

the  meddlers.  And  in  villages  the  people  have  less 
scientific  curiosity.  But  Darby  was  going  immedi 
ately.  It  was  December  twenty-third  now.  Joan 
must  come,  too;  it  would  be  most  exciting.  Joan 
argued  against  it,  but  he  too  was  curious,  so  they 
agreed  to  go.  And  the  next  day  they  went." 

II 

BY  this  time  the  circle  was  absolutely  silent, 
concentrated  to  ears  and  eyes.  They  stared  and 
leaned  towards  the  shadowy  corner  behind  the  stove 
where  the  dimly  defined  figure  crouched.  The  clerk 
got  up  and  turned  down  the  gas,  which  flared  in 
his  face,  and  the  room  was  almost  wholly  dark. 
The  man  spoke  in  a  dull,  mechanical  way,  as  one 
speaks  who  clears  his  mind,  once  for  all.  At  in 
tervals  he  waited  fully  ten  seconds  to  rest  his  voice, 
strangely  impressive,  with  its  strained,  choked 
tones. 

"The  next  day  they  went,"  he  repeated.  "Darby 

was  not  only  clever — he  was  extremely  sensitive. 

Ridicule  was  unbearable  to  him.  And  though  he 

was  a  literary  fellow,  and  artistic  and  all  that,  he 

198 


THE     MAID     OF    THE     MILL 

was  practical,  too,  for  all  he  was  so  brilliant  and 
winning.  It  actually  troubled  him  that  people 
should  believe  anything  but  what  he  called  'the 
strictly  logical,'  and  he  thought  Joan's  ideas  far 
too  flexible  and  credulous.  It  was  really  for  Joan's 
sake,  he  said  in  joke,  whom  he  rather  suspected  of 
spiritualistic  leanings,  that  he  intended  to  make  the 
excursion  into  the  country.  And  he  would  tell  no 
body.  He  would  make  no  inquiries.  He  would  con 
duct  the  search  along  somewhat  unusual  lines,  he 
declared.  One  of  them  should  sleep  in  the  room. 
At  one  o'clock  precisely  the  other  should  quietly 
mount  a  ladder  fixed  just  where  the  mythical 
ladder  had  been  and  enter  the  room  in  that  way, 
thus  preventing  any  mischievous  practical  jokes 
from  without,  and  insuring  help  to  the  man  with 
in,  should  he  need  it. 

"And  Joan  agreed  to  this.  He  was  interested 
himself,  and  he'd  have  been  as  eager  and  scornful 
as  Darby  if  it  hadn't  occurred  to  him — for  he  was 
a  terribly  literal  fellow— that  four  tragedies,  sad 
as  these  had  been,  and  all  unexplained,  couldn't 
be  accounted  for  by  chance  nor  made  less  sad  even 
199 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

by  a  good  logician  like  Darby.  So  he  suggested 
one  or  two  friends  to  fall  back  upon  in  case  of 
foul  play  of  any  kind.  And  Darby  looked  at  him 
and  laughed  a  little  sneering  laugh  and  called 

him "  The  man  choked  and  bent  lower.  He 

seemed  to  be  unable  to  speak  for  some  seconds. 
Then  he  hurried  on,  speaking  from  this  point  very 
rapidly  and  using  a  kind  of  clumsy  gesture  that 
brought  the  scenes  he  spoke  of  strangely  clear  to 
the  men  around  him. 

"He  called  him  a  coward.  So  Joan  agreed  to 
go.  And  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Christ 
mas  they  took  a  long  ladder  and  a  lantern  and 
some  sandwiches  and  two  revolvers  and  drove  in 
a  butcher's  cart  to  the  little  village.  And  Joan  was 
as  eager  as  Darby  that  no  one  should  kndPPrHL  oil 
sec,  Darby  called  him  a  coward. 

"They  slipped  into  the  old,  dingy  mill  at  dusk, 
and  went  over  it  with  the  greatest  thoroughness. 
Everything  was  open  and  empty.  Only  the  corner 
bedroom  and  one  of  the  living  rooms  were  rar- 
nished  at  all.  The  dust  lay  thick  in  the  mill 
proper,  but  the  living  rooms  were  singularly  free 
200 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

from  it.  Darby  noticed  this  and  remarked  it  to 
Joan.  'It  doesn't  smell  half  so  musty,  either,' 
he  said.  'I'm  glad  of  that.  I  hate  old,  musty 
smells.5 

"Then  a  queer,  crawly  feeling  came  over  Joan, 
and  he  said:  'Darby,  let's  go  home.  Life's  short 

enough,  heaven  knows.  If  anything '  And 

then  Darby  told  him  once  for  all  that  if  he  wanted 
to  go  home  he  might,  and  otherwise  he  might 
shut  up. 

"  'Do  you  want  it  dusty  and  smelly  ?'  said  he. 

"  'Yes,'  said  Joan,  'I  do.  I  don't  see  why  it  isn't, 
either.  It's  just  as  old  and  just  as  deserted  as  the 
other  part.* 

"  'You  might  get  a  little  dust  from  the  other 
side  and  scatter  it  about,'  said  Darby,  and 
before  Joan  could  reply  he  had  scooped  a  handful 
of  dry,  brown  dust  from  the  bagroom  of  the  mill 
and  laid  it  about  on  the  bureau  and  chairs  of  the 
bedroom.  'Now  come  out  for  our  last  patrol,'  he 
said.  They  went  out  and  studied  the  mill  carefully. 
As  they  came  around  to  the  house  side,  keeping 
carefully  in  the  shadow,  Joan  looked  surprised 
201 


THE     MAID     OP     THE     MILL 

and  pointed  to  the  door  by  which  they  had  en 
tered. 

"  'That  door's  shut,'  he  said. 

"  'Well?'  asked  Darby. 

"  'We  left  it  ajar.' 

"  'Oh,  the  wind !'  said  Darby,  and  went  up  to 
the  door  softly,  listening  for  any  escaping  joker. 
He  rattled  the  knob  and  pushed  it  inward,  but  the 
door  did  not  yield.  '  Why,  you  couldn't  have  left  it 
ajar,'  he  said,  'it's  locked!' 

"Joan  stared  at  the  house,  wondering  if  it  was 
possible  that  the  window-panes  really  shone  so 
brightly.  And  the  cobwebs  about  the  blinds,  where 
were  they?  He  could  have  sworn  that  the 

y 

was  full  of  dead  leaves  and  sticks  when  they 
in — it  was  as  clean  as  his  hand  now. 

"  'We'll  go  in  by  the  window,  the  broken  one,  at 
the  back,'  he  said  quietly.  They  went  around  the 
house  and  hunted  for  the  broken  window,  but  did 
not  find  it.  The  window  was  not  only  whole  fcrf 
locked.  Then  Joan  set  his  teeth. 

"  'The  broken  window  must  have  been  at  the  mill 
side,'  he  said,  'we'll  go  there.'  So  they  went  around 
202 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

and  clambered  in  by  a  paneless  window  and  went  to 
the  bedroom.  The  room  was  dim,  but  they  could 
distinguish  objects  fairly  well.  Darby  looked 
queerly  at  Joan. 

"  'So  you  cleared  away  the  dust,'  he  asked. 

"'What  dust?'  asked  Joan.  Then  he  followed 
Darby's  eyes,  and  where  the  little  piles  of  brown 
dust  had  lain  were  only  clean,  bare  boards. 

"Outside,  the  teams  of  the  home-coming  farmers 
rolled  by.  A  dog  barked,  and  now  a  child  called. 
But  they  seemed  far  away — in  another  country. 
Where  the  two  young  fellows  stood,  there  was  a 
strange  lonely  belt  of  silence. 

"  'Perhaps  I  brushed  the  chair  as  we  went  out,' 
said  Darby  slowly.  But  he  looked  at  Joan  queerly. 

"They  took  their  supper,  and  then  Joan  an 
nounced  his  intention  of  staying  in  the  room  while 
Darby  patrolled  the  house,  and  climbed  the  ladder 
at  one.  At  first  Darby  demurred.  He  had  planned 
to  stay.  But  Joan  was  inflexible.  It  was  utterly 
useless  to  argue  with  him,  so  Darby  agreed.  If 
Joan  wanted  help  he  was  to  call.  At  eleven  and 
twelve  Darby  was  to  climb  the  ladder  and  look  in, 
203 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

and  at  one  he  was  to  come  in,  whatever  the  situa 
tion.  At  the  slightest  intimation  of  danger  of  any 
kind  Joan  was  to  fire  his  revolver  and  Darby 
to  call  for  help  and  rush  up  the  ladder.  For  . 
that  the  people  were  so  quiet  round  about,  tHey 
were  probably  uneasy — they  knew  that  things 
might  happen  on  the  night  before  Christmas. 

"Joan  sat  for  some  time  after  Darby  had  left 
him,  staring  about  the  room.  It  was  simply  fur 
nished  with  a  large  bed,  a  table,  and  two  deal 

chairs.   Thrown   over  the   bed   was   a   moth-eaten 
« 

blanket,  checked  white  and  red.  Joan  swept  it  pff 
from  the  bed  and  shook  it,  closing  his  eyes  In 
stinctively  to  avoid  the  dust.  But  no  dust  came. 
He  shook  it  again.  It  was  as  fresh  and  clean  as 
his  handkerchief.  He  threw  it  back  on  the  bed  and 
looked  out  at  Darby  walking  quietly  around  in  ijfce 
shadow. 

"He  was  glad  Darby  was  out  there.  He  got  to 
thinking  of  ghosts  and  strange  preparations  for 
their  coming.  The  boards  of  the  window  creaked, 
and  he  gasped  and  stared,  only  to  see  Darby's 
face  at  the  window.  'Anything  happened?'  he 
204 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

signalled.  Joan  shook  his  head.  It  must  be 
eleven  o'clock.  How  was  it  possible?  The  time 
had  seemed  so  short.  He  stared  at  a  big  star  till 
his  eyes  swam.  He  felt  dull  and  drowsy.  He  had 
sat  up  late  the  night  before,  and  he  needed  sleep. 

"A  thought  came  to  him,  and  it  seemed  some 
how  very  original  and  striking.  He  tapped  on  the 
pane  to  Darby. 

"  'I'll  lie  down  and  take  a  little  nap,'  he  whis 
pered,  opening  the  window  softly.  'You  can  call 
me  at  twelve.'  Darby  nodded. 

"  'How  do  you  feel,  old  fellow?  All  right?'  he 
asked." 

The  man  choked  again  and  was  silent  for  a  time. 
The  strain  was  growing.  The  men  waited  for  some 
thing  to  happen  as  one  awaits  the  falling  of  the 
red,  snapping  embers. 

"Joan  lay  down  in  that  bed,"  said  the  stranger 
hoarsely,  and  from  this  point  he  hurried  on  almost 
too  quickly  for  clearness,  "on  that  hideous  checked 
blanket,  and  fell  asleep.  He  fell  asleep  thinking 
of  Darby's  words  and  how  thoughtful  they  were: 
'How  do  you  feel,  old  fellow?  All  right?' 
205 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

"He  had  bad  dreams.  He  dreamed  a  woman 
stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  stared  at  him 
and  motioned  him  to  go.  And  she  was  an  unnatural 
woman.  She  kept  changing  colour,  from  red  to  yel 
low,  from  yellow  to  cream  colour,  from  cream 
colour  to  white,  from  white  to — ah !  she  was  a  dead 
wroman ! 

"She  motioned  him  to  go,  but  he  refused.  She 
came  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  took  off  her  long 
red  sash  and  bound  him  down.  Then  he  was  will 
ing  to  go  indeed,  and  strained  his  muscles  in  use 
less  efforts  to  break  away,  but  she  laughed  at  him 
and  then  breathed  in  his  face  till  her  damp,  icy 
breath  chilled  his  very  soul — and  he  woke,  covered 
with  the  sweat  of  terror — to  see  her  standing  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  looking,  looking  into  his  staring 


eyes! 


Ill 


"So  it  was  true.  There  were  such  things.  But 
at  least  his  limbs  were  free,  and  to  his  joy  he  dis 
covered  that  he  was  not  afraid.  No;  he  had  a  dull 
feeling  of  coming  disaster,  but  no  fear.  She  was 
206 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

a  young  woman,  with  big  shadowy  eyes  and  a 
strange  mouth.  She  had  on  a  long,  loose  white 
night-gown,  open  at  the  throat,  and  she  carried 
a  little  lamp.  'Go!'  he  saw  in  her  eyes  as  plainly 
as  if  she  said  it.  He  looked  about  the  room — he 
could  have  sworn  it  was  changed.  It  had  the  air 
of  a  woman's  room,  that  she  is  living  in  and  keeps 
her  things  in.  He  had  no  right  there — none.  He 
should  have  gone.  But  he  was  proud  because  he 
wasn't  afraid,  and  he  answered  her  with  his  eyes 
that  he  would  not  go.  A  tired,  puzzled  look  came 
into  her  face,  a  kind  of  frown,  and  she  leaned 
over  the  footboard  and  begged  him  with  those  big 
dark  eyes,  begged  him  hard  to  go.  He  had  his 
chance — oh,  yes,  the  fool  had  his  chance! 

"But  he  was  so  proud  that  he  could  master  her, 
master  a  returned  soul — for  lovely  as  she  was,  he 
knew  she  wasn't  human — that  he  only  set  his  teeth 
and  started  up  to  come  nearer  her.  But  she  raised 
her  hand  and  he  fell  back,  feeling  queer  and 
drowsy.  Then  she  came  to  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
sat  down  and  took  from  behind  her  a  soft  red  silk 
sash  and  drew  it  across  his  face.  A  sweet,  languid 
207 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

feeling  stole  over  him ;  the  bed  seemed  like  a  cloud 
of  down,  her  sash  smelled  like  spice  and  sandalwood 
in  a  warm  wind.  He  felt  he  was  being  drugged  and 
weakened,  and  he  tried  to  stumble  up,  but  the  soft 
silk  smothered  him,  and  he  became  almost  uncon 
scious. 

"He  only  wanted  one  thing — to  feel  her  fingers 
touch  his  face  and  to  hold  her  long  brown  hair.  And 
while  she  drew  the  sash  across  his  mouth  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  on  either  side  to  catch  it  and 
reach  her  fingers.  There  was  nothing  ghostly  about 
her — she  was  only  a  lovely  dream- woman.  Maybe 
he  was  asleep. 

"And  then  she  pulled  the  sash  away,  and  he 
caught  her  eye  and  awoke  with  a  start — her  look 
was  full  of  triumph.  She  didn't  beg  him  any  longer. 
This  was  no  helpless,  gentle  spirit  of  a  woman; 
this  was  a  weird  elemental  creature ;  she  hadn't  any 
soul  or  any  pity;  something  made  her  act  out  all 
this  dreadful  tragedy,  without  any  regard  for  hu 
man  life  or  reason.  He  knew  somehow  that  she 
couldn't  help  his  weakness;  that  though  in  some 
fiendish  way  she  had  bound  him  hand  and  foot, 
208 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

she  did  it  not  of  herself,  but  in  obedience  to  some 
awful  law  that  she  couldn't  help  any  more  than 
he.  And  then  he  began  to  be  afraid.  Slowly  great 
waves  of  horror  rose  and  grew  and  broke  over  him. 
He  tried  to  move  his  feet  and  hands,  but  he  could 
not  so  much  as  will  the  muscles  to  contract.  He 
strained  till  the  drops  stood  on  his  forehead,  but 
still  his  arms  lay  stretched  motionless  across  the 
bed. 

"Just  then  he  met  her  eyes  again,  and  his  heart 
sank,  they  were  so  mocking  and  bitter.  'Fool! 
fool!'  they  said.  They  were  so  malignant,  and  yet 
so  impersonal — he  could  have  sworn  that  she  was 
afraid  too.  What  was  to  happen?  Would  she  kill 
him?  His  tongue  was  helpless.  He  worked  his  lips 
weakly,  but  they  made  no  words.  And  she  turned 
down  her  mouth  scornfully  and  played  with  the 
sash.  Why  did  she  wait?  For  she  was  waiting  for 
a  time  to  come — her  eyes  told  that.  What  was  that 
time?  A  great  joy  that  Darby  was  safe  outdoors 
came  to  him,  and  he  remembered  that  Darby  would 
come  at  twelve!  He  would  break  the  spell.  And  just 
then  she  left  the  bed  and  bent  down  over  the  little 
209 


THE     MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

lamp,  and  when  she  took  it  up  it  was  lighted.  She 
moved  across  to  the  window  and  set  it  in  the  sill. 
Then  she  glided  to  the  door  and  locked  it.  Joan 
heard  the  bolt  slip. 

"Steps  sounded  on  the  ladder  outside.  Into 
Joan's  half-dulled  thought  came  a  kind  of  com 
fort.  Darby  was  coming.  Some  one  knocked  on  the 
pane  and  the  window  was  raised  from  the  outside. 

"  'Joan !  Joan !'  whispered  Darby,  'are  you  all 
right?  Why  did  you  light  the  lamp?  Where  are 
you?'  And  then  Joan,  the  fool,  forgot  that  if  he 
had  not  answered,  Darby  would  surely  have  come 
in.  It  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  did  not  speak  now, 
he  was  lost.  He  strained  his  throat  to  say  four 
words — only  four :  'All  right.  Come  in.'  Just  that. 
The  first  two  to  reassure  Darby,  the  second  to  bring 
him.  He  made  a  mighty  effort.  'All — all  right!' 
he  shouted,  'c — c — ,'  and  then  her  eyes  were  on 
him  and  he  faded  into  unconsciousness.  He  saw  in 
them  a  terror  and  surprise.  He  understood  that 
she  wondered  at  his  speaking.  There  was  a  sting 
ing  pain  in  his  throat,  and  he  heard  Darby  whisper 
angrily, 

210 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

"'Keep  still,  can't  you?  Don't  howl  so!  It's 
quarter  to  one.  I  looked  in  at  twelve,  and  didn't 
want  to  wake  you.  You'd  better  get  up  now — 
who's  that  down  there?'  and  with  a  sickening  de 
spair  he  heard  Darby  hurry  down  the  ladder. 

"The  leaves  rustled  a  little  and  then  all  was 
still.  He  didn't  struggle  any  longer.  It  was  clear  to 
him  now.  He  was  to  play  the  lover  in  this  ill-fated 
tragedy,  whose  actors  offered  themselves,  fools  that 
they  were,  unasked,  each  time.  And  what  happened 
to  the  lover?  Why,  he  was  killed.  Well,  rather  that 
he  should  die  than  Darby.  It  seemed  to  him  so 
reasonable,  now.  No  one  had  asked  him  to  suffer. 
He  had  had  his  chance  to  go  and  refused  it.  No 
one  could  help  him  now.  Not  even  she.  They  must 
play  it  out,  puppets  of  an  inexorable  drama. 

"And  then  the  girl  dashed  to  the  bed,  and  sank 
beside  it  as  if  to  pray.  And  he  felt  her  hair  on  his 
face,  as  he  had  hoped,  but  it  brought  no  joy  to 
him.  For  something  was  coming  up  from  the  floor 
below.  Something  that  sent  a  thrill  before  it,  that 
advanced,  slowly,  slowly,  surely.  The  girl  shud 
dered  and  grasped  the  bed  and  tried  to  pull  her- 
211 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

self  up,  but  she  sank  helplessly  back.  And  slowly 
the  bolt  of  the  door  pushed  back.  No  one  pushed  it, 
but  it  slipped  back.  Then  slowly,  inch  by  inch, 
the  door  opened.  Joan  grew  stiff  and  cold,  and 
would  not  have  looked  but  that  his  eyes  were 
fixed.  Wider,  wider,  till  it  stood  flat  against  the 
wall. 

"Then  up  the  stairs  came  steps.  And  with  them 
others,  quick  and  pattering.  What  was  that?  Who 
walked  so  quickly,  with  padding,  thudding  feet? 
He  longed  for  them  to  come  in — he  dreaded  their 
coming.  The  door  was  ready  for  them.  The  room 
was  swept  and  clean. 

"Up,  up,  *they  came,  the  heavy  steps  and  the 
scratching,  pattering  feet.  Nearer,  nearer — they 
came  in.  The  man,  large,  dark,  heavy-jawed;  the 
stone-grey,  snarling  hound,  licking  its  frothing 
jaws,  straining  at  its  chain.  The  girl  writhed 
against  the  bed  in  terror — she  opened  her  lips, 
but  with  a  stride  the  man  was  upon  her, 
his  heavy  hand  was  over  her  mouth.  He  dragged 
her  up,  shaking  and  sinking,  he  snatched  the  sash 
and  bound  her  mouth,  he  held  her  at  arm's  length 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

and  stared  once  in  her  eyes.  Scorn  and  rage  and 
murder  were  in  his. 

"Joan  forgot  his  own  danger  in  terrified  pity. 
He  struggled  a  moment,  but  it  was  useless.  His 
dreadful  bonds  still  held.  The  man  came  to  the  bed, 
dragging  the  hound,  and  Joan  shut  his  eyes,  not 
to  see  the  dark  evil  face.  He  would  die  in  the  dark, 
alone,  unaided.  Oh !  to  call  once !  To  hear  a  human 
voice!  But  there  was  no  sound  but  the  panting 
of  the  great,  eager  dog. 

"The  man  seemed  not  to  see  him.  He  seized  the 
girl,  and  turning  her  toward  the  light  that  burned 
at  the  pane,  he  bound  her  to  the  bed-post  with  the 
silken  sash.  She  writhed  and  bent  and  tried  to 
grasp  his  feet;  she  pleaded  with  her  eyes  till  their 
agony  cut  Joan  like  a  knife,  but  the  man  tied  her 
straight  and  fast.  Then  he  walked  to  the  pane 
and  crouched  down  by  it  and  held  the  dog's  muzzle, 
and  became  like  a  stone  image. 

"And  suddenly  it  flashed  across  Joan's  mind, 
with  a  passion  of  fear  to  which  all  that  had  gone 
before  was  as  nothing,  that  Darby  was  coming  up 
that  ladder  to  that  light!  Darby,  whom  he  had 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

thought  so  safe,  was  to  come  unknowing,  un- 
.  warned,  to  that  straining,  panting  beast.  He 
turned  faint  for  a  moment.  And  then  with  all  the 
power  of  his  soul  he  tried  to  scream.  He  felt  his 
throat  strain  and  bend  and  all  but  burst  with  the 
tremendous  effort.  He  tried  again,  and  the  pain 
blinded  him.  At  his  feet  there  the  girl  strained  and 
twisted,  great  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks.  And 
yet  there  was  a  ghastly  silence.  The  stifled  pant 
ing  of  that  hound  echoed  in  a  deadly  quiet.  It 
was  horrible,  pitiful!  The  girl's  white  gown  was 
torn  and  mussed;  her  soft  naked  shoulder  quiv 
ered  when  she  strained  against  the  cruel  sash. 
He  could  see  that  her  arm  was  red  where  it  was 
tied. 

"She  trembled  and  bent  and  bit  her  lip  till  the 
blood  stained  her  chin.  He  cursed  and  prayed  and 
shrieked  till  the  sound,  had  it  come,  would  have 
deafened  him — but  it  was  all  a  ghastly  mockery! 
It  was  as  still  as  a  quiet  summer  afternoon — and 
the  dog  and  the  man  waited  at  the  window. 

"There  was  a  sound  of  scraping.  Someone  was 
coming    up    the    ladder — someone    who    whistled 
214 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

softly  under  his  breath,  and  came  nearer  every 
moment.  Up,  up — the  ladder  rattled  against  the 
window-frame.  The  man  at  the  window  slipped  his 
hand  slowly,  slowly  from  the  dog's  muzzle.  The 
dog  stiffened  and  drew  back  his  black,  dripping 
jaws  from  his  yellow  teeth.  The  man's  fingers  sunk 
in  the  beast's  wrinkled  neck  and  he  held  him  back, 
while  he  threw  one  look  of  hate  and  triumph  at 
the  tortured  woman  behind  him. 

"The  man  bound  to  the  bed  couldn't  bear  it  any 
longer.  As  a  hand  grasped  the  window-sill  from 
outside,  he  summoned  all  his  iron  will,  and  with  a 
rasping,  rending  effort  that  brought  a  sickly, 
warm  taste  to  his  mouth,  he  gave  a  hoarse  cry. 

"Then  the  woman  leaned  over  till  the  sash  sunk 
into  her  soft  flesh,  and  shrieked  with  a  high,  shrill 
note  that  cut  the  air  like  a  knife.  But  even  as  she 
shrieked,  a  form  rose  over  the  sill,  there  was  a 
rush  from  inside,  and  their  voices  were  drowned 
in  a  cry  of  terror,  a  scream  so  broken  and  despair 
ing  that  Joan  could  not  recognise  the  voice.  And 
then  there  was  a  horrid  crashing  fall,  and  the  light 
went  out,  and  something  snapped  in  the  brain  of 
215 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

the  man  chained  to  the  bed,  and  he  dropped  for 
miles  into  a  deep,  black  gulf." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room.  No  one 
dared  to  speak.  The  stranger's  voice  had  quavered 
and  broken,  and  in  a  hoarse  whisper  he  said,  ris 
ing  and  stumbling  to  the  door  while  they  made 
way  for  him  silently: 

"And  when  he  knew  his  friends  again,  Darby 
had  been  buried  a  long  time.  Joan  did  not  know 
whether  a  broken  neck  is  so  much  worse  than  any 
thing  else  in  the  world.  He  hadn't  any  curiosity 
about  the  mill — he  didn't  care  to  hear  the  details 
of  how  they  burned  it  to  the  ground.  Perhaps 
after  a  while  he  will  be  too  tired  to  contradict  ig 
norant  people.  But  he  thinks — he  has  said,  that 
when  a  man  has  not  slept  five  hours  in  a  week,  nor 
spoken  for  days  together  without  agony,  much 
may  be  forgiven  him  in  the  line  of  intolerance 
of  other  people's  ignorance — a  blessed  ignorance 
gentlemen,  a  blessed  ignorance." 

The  door  closed  behind  him  and  the  men  drew 
a  long  breath.  No  one  turned  out  the  gas  and  it 
216 


THE      MAID     OF     THE     MILL 

burned  till  morning,  for  they  took  their  keys  in 
silence  and  went  upstairs,  for  the  most  part  arm 
in  arm,  haunted  by  the  hoarse,  rough  voice  of  the 
stranger,  whom  they  never  saw  again. 

And  indeed  they  did  not  care  to  see  him.  "For 
what  could  one  say  ?"  as  young  Sanf ord  demanded, 
the  next  day.  "It  either  happened,  or  it  didn't.  If 
it  didn't,  he  can  say  no  more;  if  it  did,  then  he 
is  right,  and  we  are  in  blessed  ignorance."  And 
no  one  of  the  circle  but  nodded  and  looked  for  a 
moment  at  the  chair  behind  the  stove. 


217 


f^r*    •     '     • 


THE     TWILIGHT    GUESTS 


THE     TWILIGHT    GUESTS 

W  HEN  they  left  him,  in  the  warm,  late  after 
noon,  lying  listless  on  his  couch  in  the  porch,  they 
thought  he  would  stay  alone  there  till  they 
came  again.  His  little  granddaughter,  indeed,  felt 
so  sad  at  deserting  him  that  she  ran  back  and 
kissed  him  twice,  "To  leave  Grandpapa  alone!" 
she  said.  But  he  was  not  alone;  there  came  to  him 
strange  guests  and  sweet.  And  this  was  the  man 
ner  of  their  coming. 

As  he  watched  the  shadow  creeping  up  the  steps, 
he  thought  how  often  he  had  marked  the  time  by 
it  in  the  far  away  days.  He  remembered  how  he 
had  tried  to  keep  in  the  broad  sunbeam  that  lay 
along  the  walk,  when  he  used  to  run  home  to  sup 
per  tired  and  hungry,  shouting  to  his  mother  that 
his  school  was  over  and  out  and  that  he  had  come 
— "So  hungry,  mother  dear!"  And  as  he  thought 
of  her,  slow  tears  crept  from  under  his  old  eye 
lids,  and  he  raised  his  hand  feebly  to  wipe  them 
221 


THE     TWILIGHT     G  U  E"  S  T  S 

away.  When  he  saw  clearly  again,  he  started 
slightly,  for  up  the  path,  walking  in  the  sunbeam, 
came  a  boy.  He  smiled  sweetly,  cheerily  at  the  old 
man,  and  sat  down  confidingly,  close  to  the  couch. 
"It  is  so  warm  in  the  sun !"  he  said. 

The  old  man  turned  uneasily  and  looked  at  him. 
"Are  you  Arthur's  son?"  he  asked  doubtfully. 
"My  eyes  are  so  dim — I  cannot  always  tell  you 
apart,  at  first.  Are  you  Arthur's  son?" 

"No,"  said  the  child. 

"Are  you "  but  then  the  boy  looked  full  in 

his  face  and  the  old  man  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  that  searching  smile.  And  as  he  looked,  there 
grew  around  his  heart  the  sweet  faint  breath  of 
lilac  trees,  though  it  was  early  autumn  and  not  at 
all  the  spring.  And  deep  in  the  child's  eyes  was 
so  strange  a  soul — yet  so  familiar!  As  he  looked 
yet  deeper  the  lilac  scent  grew  stronger  and  he 
dared  not  turn  away  his  eyes,  lest  he  should  lose 
it.  So  he  listened  to  the  child,  who  spoke  brightly 
yet  gravely,  with  his  head  resting  against  the  old 
man's  knee. 

"See!"  he  said,  "the  lilacs  are  all  out!  I  took 
222 


THE^TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

a  bunch  to  school,  and  the  teacher  wore  them  in 
her  dress.  Oh,  but  I  grow  tired  of  the  school  in 
the  mornings,  when  the  birds  sing  under  the  win 
dow!  The  brook  is  all  full  with  the  flood  water, 
do  you  know?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man  dreamily,  "yes,  I 
know." 

"There  are  pickerel  there — I  saw  one,  anyway '" 
said  the  boy.  "The  old  one — he  lives  under  the 
stone  all  alone.  If  I  could  get  him,  I'd  be  proud 
enough !  But  I  never  can — I  can  only  catch  him 
on  a  Friday  night  when  the  moon  is  full,  and  then 
I'm  not  allowed  out !  The  man  that  weeds  the  gar 
den  told  me  that.  Do  you  remember?" 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  said  the  old  man. 

"But  if  I  don't  fish,  I  don't  care  so  much,"  said 
the  boy  happily.  "For  I  get  so  wet  and  dirty,  and 
Rachel  doesn't  like  me  then.  I  can't  look  on  her 
book.  She  is  so  dear!  She  never  spots  the  ink  on 
her  apron,  like  the  other  girls.  And  she  never  eats 
fish,  either.  She  thinks  it  hurts  them  too  much  to 
kill  them.  I  don't  think  so — do  you?  But  girls  are 
different." 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"Where  are  you  going  to-night?"  said  the  old 
man,  quietly,  yet  his  voice  trembled. 

"I'm  going  to  sing  to  Rachel's  grandfather. 
He's  blind,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  old.  His  hair  is 
white.  He  walks  with  a  cane.  But  he  loves  the  sing- 
ing." 

"Then  to-morrow  I  must  go  to  church,"  said 
the  boy.  "The  minister  talks  and  prays  and  I  get 
so  sleepy.  But  mother  keeps  a  peppermint  for  me, 
just  before  the  second  hymn.  Then  I  have  it  for 
the  long  prayer.  And  I  can  sing  the  hymns. 
Rachel  never  looks  at  me,  she  sits  so  still  in  church. 
And  she  won't  play  on  Sunday.  I  can  have  my 
whip  and  two  of  the  largest  marbles.  Do  you  think 
that  is  wrong?" 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  don't  think  that  is 
wrong." 

"And  we  have  gingerbread  on  the  porch  in  the 
afternoon,"  said  the  boy,  "and  Rachel  comes. 
Mother  says  children  must  not  be  vexed  at  the 
Lord's  Day." 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  "mother  is  so  good  to 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

us — so  good "  and  when  he  saw  clearly  again, 

'ihe  child  was  gone.  Only  the  shadow  lay  upon  the 
upper  step  of  the  porch,  and  the  sunbeam  was 
shrunken  to  a  narrow  path  of  light. 

He  stretched  out  his  trembling  hands  and  called 
sorrowfully  to  the  boy.  "Come  back !  O  come  back ! 

I  had  forgotten  so  much!  And  the  lilacs "  but 

he  was  alone.  And  his  hair  was  almost  white.  He 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  shivered.  For 
the  shadow  was  creeping  up  the  porch. 

And  then  over  his  chilled  heart  there  came  the 
breath  of  roses — summer  roses.  The  air  struck 
warm  and  soft  upon  his  cheeks.  And  when  he 
dropped  his  hands  there  stood  in  the  sun-ray  a 
straight  tall  youth.  His  eyes  were  shining  with 
strength ;  his  smile  was  happiness  itself.  In  his  firm 
brown  hands  he  held  roses — summer  roses.  The 
old  man  forgot  to  be  afraid  and  raised  himself 
on  the  cushions. 

"Give  them  to  me — give  them!"  he  cried.  The 
young  man  laughed  low  and  laid  the  red  flowers 
softly  up  against  the  withered  cheeks.  Then  he  sat 
down  and  took  the  cold,  dry  hands  in  his. 
225 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"What  do  they  make  you  remember?"  he  said. 

The  old  man  sighed  for  pure  joy.  "Ah,  how 
sweet — how  heavenly  sweet!  Did  they  come  from 
the  garden  behind  her  father's  house?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  youth,  "from  the  old  bush  near 
the  wall.  It  was  moonlight,  and  we  picked  them 
together.  I  reached  the  highest  ones,  because 
Rachel  is  not  tall.  She  wore " 

"She  wore  the  white  gown  with  the  big  shade 
hat,"  said  the  old  man  eagerly.  "And  I  made  a 
wreath  for  her  shoulders.  I  called  her — what  did 
I  call  her  ?  The  queen — the  queen  " — 

"The  queen  of  roses,"  said  the  youth. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  queen  of  roses !"  said  the  old  man. 
"Her  mouth  was  like  the  pink,  young  buds.  We 
went  up  and  down  the  long  paths,  and  I  wanted 
her  to  take  my  arm." 

"But  she  would  not,"  laughed  the  young  man. 
"She  said  that  old  folks  might  lean,  but  she  could 
run  as  well  as  any  man!" 

"So  she  ran  through  the  garden,  and  I  after!" 
cried  the  old  man,  crushing  the  roses  till  they 
filled  the  porch  with  sweetness.  "She  hid  behind 
226 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

the  old  elm  and  let  me  call  and  call.  And  I  had  to 
find  her  in  the  moonshadows.  You  know  she  grew 
afraid  and  cried  out  when  I  caught  her?  And  yet 
she  knew  I  would.  But  women  are  so.  Her  mother 
knew  I  was  with  her,  so  she  let  us  stay  till  it  was 
late.  Rachel's  mother  was  kind  to  me,  you 
know?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  young  man.  "But  she  knew  that 
Rachel " 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  man  quickly,  "it  seems  they 
all  knew!  All  but  Rachel  and  me!  Now  that  is  so 
strange.  For  we  should  have  known  it  first.  But 
Rachel  laughed  so  when  I  tried  to  tell  her,  she 
said — what  was  it  she  said?" 

"That  you  were  too  young  to  know  how  you 
would  think  of  it  later,"  said  the  youth. 

"And  I  said,  'I'm  old  enough  to  know  I  love 
you,  Rachel,  now  and  for  ever !'  "  said  the  old  man 
softly,  clasping  his  hands  together  so  that  the 
roses  dropped  to  the  ground.  "And  then  she  did 
not  laugh  at  all,  but  only  held  her  head  down  so 
I  could  not  see  her  eyes,  and  would  not  speak." 

"It  was  so  still,"  said  the  youth.  "There  was 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

no  breeze,  and  everything  in  the  garden  listened, 
listened,  for  what  she  would  say." 

"But  nothing  in  the  garden  could  hear,"  said 
the  old  man  eagerly,  "because  she  only  whis 
pered  !" 

"Was  it  then  that  her  mother  called?"  asked  the 
youth. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man,  and  he  smiled.  "But 
we  did  not  come,  for  Rachel  was  afraid  to  go; 
She  thought  her  mother  would  not  like  to  have 
her  leave  the  old  home.  And  she  feared  to  tell  her 
that  she  wanted  to  go.  So  we  sat  like  silly  chil 
dren  in  the  dark.  You  see,  I  was  afraid,  too.  Her 
father  and  mother  were  old,  and  old  people  can 
not  know  how  we  feel  when  love  first  comes  to  us 
— and  yet  they  loved,  once!" 

"Yes,  they  loved  once,"  said  the  youth,  "but 
they  forget.  They  think  of  lands  and  money  and 
the  most  prudent  course — they  cannot  feel  their 
heart's  blood  rushing  through  their  veins,  surging 
in  their  ears,  'She  loves  me !'  They  cannot  feel  that 
one  hour  with  her  is  dearer  than  years  with  the 
others  of  the  world!" 

228 


THE     TWILIGHT    GUESTS 

"And  then  we  went  in !"  said  the  old  man  softly. 
"Then  we  went  in !  And  her  mother  stood  waiting 
for  us.  Rachel  would  not  look  up  and  I  had  to 
lead  her  by  the  hand.  She  feared  that  we  could 
not  make  it  plain,  that  her  mother  would  scold 


us- 


The  youth  laughed  aloud.  "But  did  she?"  he 
said. 

And  the  old  man  laughed  too. 

"No.  She  came  to  me  and  kissed  me  and  then 
she  held  Rachel  and  cried.  But  not  that  she  was 
sorry.  Older  people  feel  strange  when  the  younger 
ones  start  away,  you  see." 

The  young  man  picked  up  the  roses  and  laid 
them  again  by  the  side  of  the  couch.  "Sleep,"  he 
said  softly,  "and  dream  of  her !"  And  the  old  man's 
eyelids  drooped  and  the  hands  that  held  the  roses 
relaxed  in  quiet  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  the  sun  had  almost  set.  The 
path  of  rays  had  faded  and  the  creeping  shadow 
had  covered  the  highest  step  and  lay  along  the 
porch.  He  felt  feebly  for  the  roses,  but  they  were 
gone.  And  the  sweet  warm  scent  of  them  was  only 
229 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

in  his  dim  memory.  But  there  sat  in  the  shadow  a 
man. 

Threads  of  grey  were  in  his  hair  and  lines 
around  his  firm  mouth.  But  in  his  eyes  shone  yet 
a  sweet  strength,  and  he  held  his  head  high  as  he 
spoke. 

"Do  you  know  where  I  have  been?"  he  said. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"Think !"  said  the  other. 

Then  while  he  looked  into  the  stranger's  eyes, 
there  stole  across  his  heart  the  wind  that  blows 
through  the  orchard  when  the  fruit  is  ripe.  He 
drew  in  great  breaths  of  it,  in  doubt,  and  at  last 
he  said  in  a  whisper  so  low  that  he  hardly  heard 
himself,  "You  have  been  to  his  grave — his  little 
grave !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  "I  have.  His  mother  goes 
there  alone — not  even  I  go  with  her.  She  goes 
alone." 

"No,"  said  the  old  man  solemnly,  "no.  God 
goes  with  her.  I  thought  that  she  would  have  died 
— why  did  she  live?" 

"Because,"  said  the  other,  "because  you  would 
230 


THE    TWILIGHT    GUESTS 

have  been  alone.  And  you  could  not  have  kept 
yourself  a  man,  if  she  had  gone,  too." 

"Ah,  yes !"  said  the  old  man  softly,  "that  is  it. 
She  is  an  angel!  When  he  was  born  I  was  almost 
afraid.  I  said,  'My  son !  I  have  a  son !  If  I  should 
die  to-night,  he  would  live  and  I  should  live  in 
him!'  And  when  she  brought  him  herself  into  the 
orchard — I  see  her  now — I  see  her  now !" 

He  could  not  lift  his  head  from  the  pillow,  he 
was  so  tired  and  weak,  but  with  his  eyes  he  begged 
the  other  to  come  nearer.  The  man  came  close  to 
the  couch  and  looked  down  tenderly  at  the  old 
man.  "She  wore  the  white  trailing  gown,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  old  man,  "and  the  great 
wide  hat.  And  she  held  him  up  under  the  brim 
and  said  that  if  it  should  rain,  she  and  he  could 
keep  dry  together,  but  I  must  stay  in  the  rain!" 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  the  other,  "how  when 
he  could  just  say  words,  you  played  with  him  un 
der  the  apple  tree?" 

"Can  I  ever  forget?"  said  the  old  man.  "But 
now  the  angels  teach  him  a  better  language,  so 
that  he  had  but  one  to  learn !" 
231 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"Do  you  remember  how  she  left  him  with  her 
mother  and  went  away  with  you?"  said  the  other. 

The  old  man  smiled  a  little.  "Ah,  yes!  Well 
enough !"  he  said.  "We  thought  we  would  be  young 
again,  and  leave  him  to  his  grandmother  and  his 
sisters.  He  had  enough  care!  It  was  not  lack  of 
that " 

"And  when  you  had  gone  only  a  few  miles  she 
grew  anxious " 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  the  old  man.  "She  said,  'Sup 
pose  he  is  sick?  Suppose  he  falls  into  the  brook? 
He  walks  about  so  brave  and  strong — and  he  is 
our  only  son!'  So  we  came  back." 

"You  were  good  to  her,"  said  the  other.  "You 
did  always  just  as  she  wished." 

"I  loved  her,"  said  the  old  man  simply. 

The  stranger's  eyes  grew  moist  and  his  voice 
shook  as  he  said,  "When  he  grew  sick " 

"Ah,  when  he  grew  sick!"  cried  the  old  man 
bitterly.  "Almost  I  lost  my  trust  in  the  Giver  of 
my  child,  and  dared  not  give  him  back!  How  I 
begged !  How  I  prayed ! — you  know !" 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  stranger,  "I  know." 
232 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"Then  she  left  me  for  the  first  time,"  said  the 
old  man  slowly.  "For  the  first  time.  She  went  alone 
and  prayed.  Oh  Rachel,  my  dear,  dear  wife,  I 
could  not  go  with  you  to  God!  I  think  even  we 
go  best  alone!  I  said  'It  cannot  be!  He  cannot  let 
it  come!  I  have  done  all  my  life  as  best  I  knew 
how,  and  is  this  my  reward?'  And  I  heard  her 
crying,  and  I  wished  I  had  never  lived." 

"But  not  for  long?"  said  the  other. 

The  old  man  smiled  through  his  tears. 

"No,  no,  not  for  long!"  he  said.  "When  Rachel 
saw  that  I  was  weak  she  grew  strong.  It  is  strange, 
but  women  are  the  strongest  then.  And  she  showed 
me  the  folly  and  wickedness  of  throwing  away  my 
faith  because  the  Most  Faithful  had  taken  away 
my  child.  And  she  brought  me  my  little  daughters 
and  set  them  on  my  knees  and  put  her  arms  around 
my  neck.  So  I  grew  comforted.  And  there  have 
come  other  sons — Arthur  and  John.  But  he — ah. 
Rachel!  Little  we  thought  when  we  laid  him  on 
the  grass  under  the  tree  and  measured  him  with 
goldenrod,  that  he  would  so  soon  lie  there  for  all 
our  lives!" 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"And  he  lies  there  now,"  said  the  stranger. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  man  softly,  "he  lies  there 
now.  Under  the  apple  tree  where  he  lay  and 
laughed  that  day,  he  lies  there  now.  For  Rachel 
wanted  it  so.  'I  carried  him  out  there  the  first 
time,'  she  said,  'and  he  always  loved  it  there.  I 
used  to  walk  there  before  he  came,  and  plan  for 
him,  how  he  should  grow  so  great  and  famous  and 
good ;  and  now  I  want  him  to  be  there,  while  he 
is  asleep.  And  I  think  that  all  the  fields  are  God's 
— the  orchard  as  well  as  the  graveyard.'  So  we 
laid  him  there,  and  she  goes  there  often,  and  I." 

"You  miss  her?"  said  the  stranger. 

"Miss  her?"  said  t^ie  old  man,  staring  at 
the  visitor,  "miss  her?  Why,  she  is  here!  She  is 

my  wife ! "  but  he  was  alone,  on  the  couch, 

with  the  faint  breath  of  ripening  apples  dying 
on  the  air. 

And  as  he  turned  wearily,  the  shadow  crept 
softly  and  covered  the  porch  and  the  couch  where 
he  lay.  The  sun  dropped  behind  the  hills  and  the 
air  struck  cold  on  his  uncovered  shoulders.  He  was 
too  tired  to  cry,  too  old  and  weak  to  question  or 
234 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

find  fault,  but  he  dimly  felt  that  to  be  left  alone 
was  hard.  His  memory  grew  suddenly  untrust 
worthy  ;  had  they  come  or  not?  It  was  all  so  plain 
to  him  now.  He  was  not  with  Rachel,  he  was 
neither  in  the  church  nor  in  the  garden  nor  in  the 
orchard.  He  was  an  old  man,  strangely  weak  and 
confused,  left  alone. 

"Ah,  Rachel,"  he  murmured,  "only  come  again, 
while  I  go!  Come  to  take  me — not  that  it  will  be 
long  to  wait  before  I  see  you,  dear !  We  have  been 
so  happy,  you  and  I !  But  it  was  so  cold " 

And  then  while  he  shivered  helplessly  and  half 
afraid,  there  came  the  scent  of  spring  lilac-bushes, 
and  by  his  bed  stood  the  bright-eyed  child. 

"Come !  come  and  sit  by  me !"  cried  the  old  man. 
But  the  boy  only  smiled.  "Take  my  hands — they 
are  so  cold !"  he  begged.  Still  the  boy  smiled.  And 
as  the  old  man  looked,  the  child's  eyes  filled  him 
with  half  hope,  half  fear.  "Are  you— are  you— 
he  tried  to  speak,  but  no  sound  came  from  his  lips. 

"If  I  come  and  touch  you,"  said  the  boy,  "it 
will  be  the  end.  Shall  I  come?"  The  old  man's  face 
lighted  softly. 

235 


THE     TWILIGHT     GUESTS 

"Yes,"  he  said  in  his  heart,  for  he  could  not 
speak  aloud,  "yes,  come  now!"  The  boy  laughed 
and  stepped  to  the  couch  and  lay  down  beside  him, 
putting  his  cheek  close  to  the  white  hair. 

Into  the  heart  of  the  old  man  rushed  a  quick, 
new  life.  "Ah,  Rachel,  Rachel,"  he  said  strong  and 
clear,  "sit  on  the  step  and  eat  your  cake  with  me? 
Here  is  the  flag-root  I  promised  you — it's  quite 
clean.  I  took  off  all  the  mud!  And  here  is  the  red 
marble" — but  the  child  kissed  him  and  he  went  to 
sleep,  holding  to  his  heart  his  happy  youth. 

And  when  they  found  him  in  the  evening,  they 
were  not  too  grieved,  for  on  his  face  was  a  great 
content. 


236 


8163 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


>•     ••  •     •••       mil  HI     in    in  |      || 

A    001  372  785    4 


SOUTHERN  BRANCH, 

.iiTY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

LIBRARY, 

i)  -OS  ANGELES,  CALIF. 


